The New Marguerite
by lks358
Summary: In the wake of the 1892 fire at the Metropolitan Opera, an arrangement born of practicality and ambition may become far more than Erik or Christine expected. E/C.
1. Chapter 1

Christine fought to ignore the persistent ache in her back as she tied her bonnet under her chin and pulled on her worn gloves in one of the dingy back rooms designated for employees at Lord & Taylor. A long day behind the counter always left her sore and weary, and her body begged for her to return to the boarding house where she could sink into one of the old armchairs in the parlor and share a cup of tea with Meg. But the thought of going straight there was stifling; all day she had been able to feel herself coming dangerously close to a routine, slipping into complacency in her life as a shopgirl. She needed the reminder that this was not what her life was supposed to be. So when she stepped out onto the crowded street, she turned and headed up Broadway, retracing the path that she had taken many times in the last eight months.

August 27th, 1892 was the day that her life had ended—at least, what little of her life had remained at that point. Only the day before she'd been notified that she'd been accepted into the chorus of the Metropolitan Opera. For that one, brilliant day, she had been excited about the future stretching out before her, a future that no longer looked as empty and desolate as it had looked for so long. It was now filled with music and light and the thrill that could only come from performing. She might never be a great singer, never be the prima donna, but it seemed now that there was a good chance she would at least be happy, and that was much more than she had been able to say about the months since Mama's death.

The next morning she had stood in the crowd on Seventh Avenue, watching the opera house burn. Smoke had stung her eyes, and she'd told herself that that was why tears had blurred her vision.

Strangely, the walks up to the opera house helped settle something in her at the end of the day. The knowledge that her life now was not as it was supposed to be strengthened her resolve to do whatever she could to make it onto the stage, but she supposed it also provided her a kind of comfort. Even if only for a few moments, her dream felt a little less distant, and she was certain that it would eventually be within her grasp again, and the tiredness that always seeped into her bones by the end of the day would ease a little. It wasn't just the physical tiredness that came from being on her feet since dawn and spending the day with a welcoming smile plastered to her face as she assisted ladies whose biggest worry was whether they were choosing a pair of gloves that suited them; it was the exhaustion of being unable to do what she was supposed to do, of feeling disappointment so deeply that it had become a part of her. With each step that drew her closer to the place that she had very nearly been able to call home, her spirit revived just a little bit, her hope and optimism replenishing. She made this walk almost every day, even when the clatter of the carriages passing her made her head pound and the ache behind her eyes threatened to cloud her vision.

For a long, terrible while, it had been uncertain whether the company would even continue. Reconstruction on the building had only started earlier this month. But even after the fear that there might no longer even be a company had passed, everything was left painfully uncertain. She had yet to hear from anyone about beginning rehearsals for a new season. For all she knew, no one even remembered that she had auditioned. It would be more than understandable if record of her acceptance had been lost in the chaos of the months following the fire.

So here she was, rounding the corner onto 39th Street, pulled to the place that filled her with hope and fear in equal measure; it was, she had discovered, at least preferable to the dullness that settled over her during the hours she stood behind the counter at Lord & Taylor. Seeing the empty shell of the opera house, staring at it as if she might see through its stone walls to watch the burnt wreckage inside be slowly repaired, roused her. She let out a small sigh as she approached the building, slowing her pace as she came to stand just across the street. Everything would work out. It _had_ to. She didn't think she had the fortitude to try her luck in another city, with another company, leaving behind the last traces of her father that she felt lingering in New York. But what would be left of her life, of herself, if she had to live with the weight of such a crushing disappointment?

She wasn't sure what it was about the man standing down the street from her that caught her attention and momentarily pulled her from her thoughts. At first she assumed that it was because he was the only other stationary figure around—he, like her, stood slightly out of the way of hurried passersby to look up at the opera house. But what held her attention was the man's face. There was something odd about it that she couldn't quite identify at first. She watched him for another moment, his features frozen and glazed with an unnatural sheen that caught the sunlight when he moved his head. It was a mask, she realized, and then there was a jolt of recognition.

She had never met the man before, but she had certainly heard about him. Even before she had auditioned for the opera, Meg had told her about him, the music world in the city small enough that apparently word of the Metropolitan Opera's new musical director had gotten around to even the burlesque stages where Meg danced. The fact of his employment alone would have been enough to draw some attention; it wasn't often that such a respected company was willing to appoint a man who seemed to come out of nowhere to such a significant position. And, of course, there were the stories that circulated about his intensity and tempestuous disposition. But what was most discussed was the mask he wore at all times, supposedly covering scars from a childhood injury. No one quite seemed to accept that explanation for the oddity, though, and everyone was more than happy to speculate about the real reason for it.

Christine wasn't sure why her feet started carrying her toward the man, but as she neared him, the only thought in her mind was that he could help her. He could give her information. Maybe, if she was very fortunate, he could give her some kind of reassurance that her dream was not completely lost. She did not allow any hesitation to enter her step—if she did, she would certainly realize her foolishness and continue past him without a word. And so she approached him without pause and spoke with a boldness that she did not truly possess.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mason?"

His steely gaze snapped to her, and it was all she could do not to shrink back under the scrutiny of his severe golden eyes. For half a second she searched his face, trying to read his expression, before remembering that the search would yield no answers. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his eyes, trying to give the impression of the confidence that was rapidly leaving her.

"Mr. Mason, please forgive me for disturbing you. My name is Christine Daae, and I was accepted into the chorus just before the fire. And I… I have not received any word about whether and when rehearsals will resume, and I am worried that my position may have been lost in all the confusion. I never even got to join a rehearsal, you see."

Her voice caught for a moment, her courage steadily draining as he continued to watch her, his gaze never changing and the hard line of his mouth revealing nothing of his thoughts. How insolent she must seem to him, she realized, accosting him out of nowhere like this. As if her worries should be of any significance to him.

"I know that I have no right to ask anything of you," she continued hastily, "and that you have far greater concerns than the whereabouts of a single chorus girl. But if there is any information you could give me, or even the name of someone I might contact, it would mean a great deal to me."

For a painful moment—probably no more than a second or two, even though it felt like it stretched into minutes—he remained silent, regarding her impassively. Christine held her breath, although she wasn't sure if the idea of him saying something was more or less terrifying than the idea of him saying nothing and simply turning and walking away. But then he spoke, and the abrupt sound of his voice nearly made her jump.

"Miss Daae. I remember your name. Are you of any relation to the former concertmaster at the Academy?"

Christine only nodded, taken aback and not immediately able to find her voice again. "Yes. My father." Those days when her father had led the orchestra at the Academy felt lifetimes away. All of her memories from before he'd fallen ill now felt a bit like a dream, and she had been very young when he'd had the title of concertmaster. But she could still remember wandering wide-eyed backstage and glimpsing the performances from the wings, thinking that it all seemed so wondrous that it could only be conjured by magic.

"Well then, Miss Daae."

The voice, firm but not harsh, jolted her from the memories, and she found herself looking back up at the impassive mask and the golden eyes that blazed beneath it. The situation seemed so ridiculous to her, then. What in the world had possessed her to speak to this strange, intimidating man when she could barely hold his gaze now without trembling?

"Plans for the next season are still in progress," he was saying, not seeming to take notice of her nerves. "If all goes well with the reconstruction, we believe we will be able to open the house by the end of this year. Although, I'm sure you can understand, an undertaking of this scope is quite complex and it's too early for anything to be certain."

Christine nodded mutely. He wasn't talking down to her, exactly—his voice wasn't gentle but it wasn't patronizing—but she couldn't help but feel foolish anyway. She ducked her head, hoping to conceal the flush of her heating cheeks. When she dared to glance back up, she almost thought that something had changed in his demeanor. Something in his stance seemed almost to have softened a little, and it eased the tightness that had formed in her chest.

"Because quite some time has passed since your audition and there have been no rehearsals since then, I would like to hear you myself to make sure you are placed correctly. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Yes," Christine found herself saying before the request had had time to fully sink in. In the back of her mind, there was a prick of panic that he might find her unsatisfactory and reject her, and then she would be worse off than she would have been if she had never approached him and had simply continued to wait for news. But surely he would not have offered to hear her just to placate her. He couldn't be planning on dismissing her outright. Perhaps there was a chance that this could work out.

"Can you meet with me at this time tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said again, wishing that she could form more than that single word but finding that she was unable to do so.

"Very well." He reached into his coat and withdrew a card, holding it out to her. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her hand did not tremble when she accepted it. "I'm afraid that the present circumstances have left me without an office, so I must ask you to come to my home."

"That's fine," she replied hastily. "Thank you very much, Mr. Mason."

His slight nod of confirmation was all that she could stand to wait for before turning and hurrying down the street, her face hot and fresh anxiety blooming in her chest, torn between terror and elation.

* * *

The brownstone that loomed over Christine should not have seemed so intimidating as she looked up at it from the bottom of its steps. It was no more than an ordinary house, no different from the others that lined the quiet street. But inside the building was the man with the burning gaze, the man known for his intensity almost as much as he was known for the mystery surrounding so much of him. The thought of singing solely for his scrutiny was very nearly enough to keep her rooted where she stood. But this was her chance, she knew. This could be the start of her career. If he liked her and approved of her being in the chorus, an actual acquaintance with the musical director would certainly be advantageous. Pulling the card that he had given her from her pocket to check the address one final time, she took a deep breath, forced the pinch of apprehension from her expression, and climbed up the steps.

The door swung open hardly a second after she knocked, startling her. She did her best to compose herself and smile in greeting. "Mr. Mason."

"Miss Daae. Please come in." He turned without further comment and, after a second of hesitation, she stepped inside, trailing behind him as he led her down the hall.

His study must have been a rather large room, but the proliferation of items that filled it made it feel small. A large desk, the surface of which was entirely covered with books and papers, sat at one end of the room with two worn armchairs positioned across from it. Bookshelves filled with thick volumes lined the walls on either side of the desk, and against the other wall, next to where they had entered the room, sat an upright piano strewn with sheet music. He went directly to the piano and took a seat on the bench before he finally looked back at her. Christine took a measured step forward, her uncertainty growing under his indecipherable gaze, and she found herself suddenly and absurdly sure that he noticed the tear in the sleeve of her shirtwaist that she had so carefully mended. When he made no comment on the suitability of her appearance, she forced herself to speak up.

"I appreciate you offering to see me." Her voice came out softer than she had expected. "I truly did not mean to bother you yesterday, and I am certain you have far more pressing matters that require your attention."

His lips quirked a little at this, though she did not know what to make of the expression. "Much of my time these days is spent on paperwork and not enough on music. I do not mind the break."

Christine smiled a little at this, her nerves eased just the slightest bit by the fact that he did not seem annoyed by her presence. "Well, it was generous of you to offer your time nonetheless."

"What piece did you audition with?" he asked instead of replying. "I should like to hear it."

"_Je veux vivre_. From _Roméo et Juliette_."

"Very well. Are you ready?" He had already turned back to the piano and the last words were clearly said as an afterthought.

"Yes." Christine rushed to clear her head of everything but the song, her stomach clenching. She had reviewed the music carefully the night before, but now she was struck with the fear that the notes were not as ingrained in her as she had believed. It had been so long since she had really practiced—the fire had taken more of her spirit than she cared to admit, and she'd needed time to nurse her disappointment. Before her audition, she would have been able to sing this piece backwards, but now it was seeming increasingly likely that the months away from music had eroded her memory and the notes would easily slip from her mind. It was a relief, at least, that she had warmed up as best she could before she'd come here, as the necessity had seemed to slip his mind entirely.

The opening notes rang out from the piano before she could work herself into too much of a panic. Then there was only the music in her head. The words tumbled from her lips naturally and each note lifted a bit of the weight of the last months from her. Soon she was smiling as she sang, lost in the joyous melody, almost unaware of the man who had turned his head to watch her as he played. It felt like a piece of her had been missing and she hadn't even been aware of just how big of a piece it was until now, now that she felt whole again. Music had always filled something essential in her, and she supposed that she'd simply grown used to the empty dreariness of her days without it. Singing again now, even as nervous as she had been minutes ago, was nearly ecstatic.

The silence that followed the end of the piece, in contrast, was more than a little discomforting. Christine emerged from the haze of music only as the last notes from the piano faded and was immediately aware of the sensation of eyes on her. Glancing up, she found him watching her, his rigid posture and unflinching gaze radiating intensity. A shiver of self-consciousness ran up her spine. Had she truly been that bad? Even worse, had she been so caught up in the song that she had completely forgotten to watch his reaction and gone on without any awareness of his displeasure? Her face was growing hot but she felt frozen where she stood, unable to will her feet to move. When she spoke, her words were quiet and timid.

"I… I'm afraid I have fallen terribly out of practice—"

"Are you familiar with Juliette's aria from the end of act four?"

It took a beat for Christine to find the answer to the unexpected question. "Yes."

"Good. Begin at '_Amour, ranime mon courage_.'"

She gave a slight nod, and this time when he began playing, her nerves had been replaced with confusion. She'd been sure that he was displeased, but if that was the case he certainly would have dismissed her—he did not seem like the kind of man who frequently gave second chances. She did not have long to dwell on the thought, though, and after she made it through the first few bars with some uncertainty, she was quickly swept back up into the passion of the song. There was no room to question anything while she sang, not when the music from the piano was so lush and the notes she sang were filled with such emotion. The climax of the piece left her breathless, but before she'd had much of a chance to recover, he was launching them into _Faust_. Then it was _Lucia di Lammermoor_ and _Il Trovatore_ and _Otello_ and _La Traviata_, and Christine began to wonder if he planned on having her sing selections from the entirety of the company's repertoire. It was a challenge to keep up with him, and when he finally stood from the piano bench, she felt fully spent.

"Miss Daae." The voice made her look up and, again finding herself the object of that powerful gaze, she held her breath. "Have you had much formal training, Miss Daae?"

"No, Mr. Mason. Only a little, and not for several years." Professor Valerius had taught her some after her father had died and had even talked about getting her a formal education, sending her to a conservatory. But then he had passed too, and there had been far less money than they had thought, and anyway, she couldn't have left Mama alone. So there had been no more talk of her training.

"I suspected as much. Your technique requires work. However…" His eyes met hers for the first time since he had let her into the house. Had he even met her eyes then? She could not remember now, but it seemed likely that she would remember if he had. For all that he had watched her, his eyes boring into hers now was something else entirely, and she found herself unable to look away.

"You have quite a remarkable voice." His words took on a strange hush that she might have described as almost reverent if he had not been talking about her. "I can hear your passion when you sing, your connection to the music. And that is a trait that I have always considered far more essential for a great artist to possess than any technical skill."

"Thank you," she said quietly, surprised that she could manage to find her voice at all.

"I would like to teach you."

Christine was sure that her expression must have showed her alarm at the statement, but he made no comment on it.

"I can help you prepare for a career—a _real_ career, not just a place in the chorus. You could be great, Miss Daae, if you allow me to help you."

She opened her mouth to reply, but it was another second before the words would form. "That is… a very kind offer, Mr. Mason, and I appreciate it more than you know. I understand what it would mean to have a teacher of your skill. But I… I am afraid I do not have the means."

He was shaking his head before she had finished the sentence. "I am not asking for your money. Only for your time and effort."

"Oh, but I can't accept—"

"Perhaps," he added quickly, "a condition can be added to your contract. If I teach you, you will make your debut with me and remain exclusively under my direction for several seasons. After that, you may sing with whatever company you wish. And, I assure you, you will have your pick."

Christine hesitated. "That is all? Are you certain?"

"I am."

She looked down, finally tearing her eyes from his, and fiddled with the buttons on the cuff of her sleeve as she considered. Experience cautioned her not to get her hopes up—if it seemed too good to be true, it likely was. It either wouldn't last or would somehow go terribly wrong. But, then again, wouldn't she be a fool to pass up the best opportunity she would likely ever have simply because she was too cautious? Besides, she supposed it wasn't as if she had anything to lose.

"Then I would be very happy to accept your offer." She met his eyes again as she spoke with a voice that didn't quite feel like her own.

His mouth quirked once more, this time more pleasantly, something a little closer to a smile. "Good."

When Christine emerged from the house back onto the street, she felt like she was emerging from a dream. The sound of a carriage rattling by in front of her seemed to jar her awake and she glanced back at the house, half expecting it to have disappeared. But it was still there, and it remained there when she looked back again once she reached the end of the block. She could hear the voices of people going about their days, the clatter of the elevated train nearby, the huffs of the horses as their hooves clapped against the street. This was the real world, the world she knew, and it seemed entirely removed from the afternoon she had just spent in the house down the road. And yet one was as real as the other, and tomorrow she would return here to begin her lessons with this severe, unknowable man. What kind of reckless boldness had driven her to this point, she wasn't sure. But at least she was trying something.


	2. Chapter 2

The 1893 season at the Metropolitan Opera was Erik's chance to build something. And not just in a literal sense, although reconstruction on the opera house had begun and he had certainly made plenty of strong suggestions regarding the renovations. No, this was Erik's chance to build something far grander and more lasting than any physical structure could be. This was his chance to affect culture itself, to influence the artistic and musical tastes of New York City's most elite and powerful citizens. This was the kind of legacy that he had always longed for, the kind of legacy that had seemed absurdly out of reach even a couple of years ago.

He supposed that, in some perverse way, he should even be thankful for the previous year's fire. It was a fresh start for the company. The stakeholders had reorganized and elected new leadership, thinning out the less adventurous and those still tied to the vestiges of the Academy's traditions—those who had argued that everything ought to be sung in German, which Erik had maintained was no more innovative than the old way of singing everything in Italian. Winning over friends was hardly an easy task for him, but those who had come to at least have some respect for him in a professional capacity now held more sway than ever. If there would ever be a time when he could actually establish himself, secure a position for himself amid a society that was poised to reject him, it was now. This was the culmination of years of work and luck and careful planning, and yet rather than bringing him relief, the knowledge only brought more tension. The opportunity was within his grasp, but it was all so tenuous. This season could make or break him. The thought left him breathless, a sick, sinking feeling settling into his stomach, and for a moment he closed his eyes and tried to slow his breaths.

The sound of the door to his study opening made his eyes snap open, darting from the papers strewn over his desk to the opposite end of the room where Armand was stepping inside. He sighed and gave Armand a curt nod. He'd hesitate to call the man a friend—their relationship was likely closer to a business partnership than anything else, not always amiable, but functional and kept friendly enough by a shared goal—but Armand had been one of the first of his set to be open to Erik. Erik had already been building a reputation, having been requested to play his violin at a few of the more bohemian gatherings of the _nouveau riche_. There he had met Armand, who was a bit out of his comfort zone but was duly impressed with Erik nonetheless. He had seen Erik's talent and intellect for what they were and had soon come to understand how beneficial he could be for the company. Even if they were not exactly friends, he was friendlier with Erik than anyone else.

"Erik," Armand greeted, removing his hat and taking a seat in the plush chair on the other side of the desk, having grown used to the barely contained chaos of the small room after so many hours spent in this seat. "Looking over the renovation plans again? You are aware, of course, that we have hired perfectly competent architects for this purpose."

"I have never believed that _competency_ is the best trait to recommend a man," Erik replied, continuing when this was met with a dubious look from Armand. "I have only made a few suggestions this time, and I believe that if the board will care to look over them, they will find them quite valuable."

"You might consider being more selective about your suggestions," Armand said. "Not everyone appreciates them. I have been honest with you from the beginning about how hesitant the board was to put you in this position. There are those who now feel that you are trying to undermine their authority."

Erik knew this well, and the knowledge had resulted in a low but constant anxiety, but he leaned back in his chair and spoke coolly. "Is it my fault that other men would place their pride before good ideas?"

"No, but if you continue to push them like this, you will soon find that you are no longer in a position to share your ideas."

Erik made no reply, his lips pressing into a hard line. He was tempted to argue that he wasn't pushing them, that he was simply presenting them with what would be best for the company. He was trying to move them forward, to position them on the forefront. But they were simply too entrenched in their long-held ideals, or else they simply did not like him and had decided to disagree with him as a matter of principle. Every move he made would seem like a push if they remained so set against him.

Armand spoke again after a few seconds had ticked by, his tone lightening from the sternness of a moment ago in a way that told Erik he was trying to distract him from the frustration he was radiating. "Well, anyway, how are plans for the new season coming? It appears that the renovations are off to a good start, and we are optimistic that we can open this winter."

Erik's first impulse was to hold onto his frustration to spite Armand, and he nearly replied that plans would be coming along much better if he didn't have to justify every single decision to men who were determined to find fault in his judgment. But it wouldn't do to alienate his strongest ally—he often wondered how Armand had managed to put up with him for this long anyway—so he bit back the words. "Fine. Seeing as this season will be a new beginning for the opera house, I would like to open with _Faust_. I trust that will be agreeable to everyone, seeing as it opened the original opera house a decade ago."

"I'm sure it will be."

Erik paused for a second to consider his next words. "They must trust me a little if anything is to get done. I have been appointed to this role, even if by a slim and uncertain majority, and I will never be able to prove myself a valuable choice if I am not given the opportunity to do my job."

"I understand, Erik," Armand said. "Truly, I do. But you must know that the others are simply looking out for the company's best interest and after the fire they are, understandably, a bit cautious. We all want to ensure that we have as successful a season as possible. They are not against _you_."

Erik knew that the last part wasn't true and that Armand didn't believe it either; it was only said in an attempt to placate him. But he did have to concede to Armand's first point.

"I am aware of the importance of having a successful season. But it's not as if I am working against that. They know—_you_ know—the level of my musical expertise. Hell, the reason you and some of the others pushed so hard for me to be made musical director is because you understand the value of my vision. The company might be established and respected, but it will never grow into something lasting if we only ever do things the way they have been done before. The whole point of founding the Metropolitan Opera was to break away from the Academy's traditions and entrenchment in the city's old money. Are we to end up becoming just another version of that?"

Armand sat and listened to this speech with a calm but engaged expression that Erik supposed was intended to show that he was listening but, in his irritation, felt patronizing. "What do you want me to say, Erik? Of course we want to continue to grow the company and distinguish ourselves from the old ways. And I believe that we have done just that, even if not with the alacrity that you would prefer. But there is still a hierarchy to these things. These are still men who expect respect from their inferiors. I don't believe I need to remind you, Erik, that that is what you are, at least in New York society. A few years ago you were playing on the streets. You have a comfortable position now, and you are respected well enough, but that does not mean that the others see you as being on their level."

Erik made an effort to unclench his jaw without success. As if he cared what these society men thought of him. As if he wanted to be on their level, considered their equal. He would be perfectly happy to have nothing to do with the lot of them, Armand included. The fact that he needed them made every muscle in his body tense. All that mattered to him was the music, and that was what should matter to the board, too, far more so than maximizing profits and these petty political games they played. They had appointed him for his mind—because they had seen that he could take them in a new direction and had understood what that meant. And now that he was here, he was expected to play the same games as the rest of them at the expense of the very thing they had hired him for.

Armand could read his displeasure. "I know that you do not like this, and I can't say I blame you. But I encourage you to think long-term. If you are willing to make some concessions this season and the company does well, then you will have more freedom to do what you please with every subsequent season."

Erik hated it when Armand actually made a good point about something they disagreed on. "Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "Perhaps… perhaps it would be worthwhile to… make more allies."

Armand nodded, content with this resolution. "You know that I am on your side, Erik. I believe in your vision and ability. But I cannot and will not use up all of the influence that I have defending you."

"I understand."

With the matter close enough to settled for the time being, they turned to the details of Erik's plans for the season, Erik reluctantly refining a few points at Armand's suggestion. Nothing was finalized yet—there was still so much that hinged on the progress made on the opera house—but at least they would have a plan to present when the board was ready to hear it. And, Erik reminded himself, he would not have to focus on appeasing these men forever. In time, even they would see that he knew fully what he was doing, and he would have freer reign with every season that passed. He would leave his mark on the city's music scene sure enough, and it was a goal that was worth the displeasure he suffered now.

It wasn't long after Armand left that the door to his study opened again, and he started a bit, forgetting for a moment that he had been expecting someone. The young woman entered the room meekly, whatever confidence had driven her to first speak to him clearly having deserted her since. Desperation was like that, Erik knew—its force was impossible to ignore, but it was fleeting.

Whatever it was that had made her approach him, he still wasn't quite sure what had made him offer to hear her sing. There had just been something about her that had caught his attention. She had looked nervous, but she had walked up to him nonetheless and told him directly that she was concerned about her position in the chorus. The more that Erik interacted with people, particularly the kind of people that his current status required him to interact with, the more he came to appreciate that kind of candor in a person. And the fact that she was dedicated enough to singing that she would even consider approaching him, as intimidating as it must have been, spoke favorably of her. Perhaps part of him had pitied her, too. He certainly understood what it felt like to have to fight tooth and nail for what you wanted most, and to have it all snatched away so suddenly must have devastated her. The uncertainty of the upcoming season was relentlessly stressful for him, and he could imagine that she must feel similarly was she waited to hear whether she would ever return to the opera.

Besides all of that, it had occurred to him that this might be another small way that he could exert his influence on the company. The chorus master from before the fire—a new man would be taking up the position this season—had seemed like a competent enough fellow, but Erik supposed that if he wanted to truly leave his mark on the opera, to make a tangible difference, he should be involved in as many decisions as possible, even relatively small ones. If he liked her, perhaps he could even arrange for her to have a minor role at some point during the season. It would be a kind of reward for her commitment, and of course it would also demonstrate his adeptness at finding and promoting rising talent. So he had asked her to sing.

The instant he'd heard her, everything had changed. It was immediately apparent to him that she must have received little or poor formal training, but her voice had a peculiar quality to it that had raised goosebumps on his arms. He had meant to only have her sing one or two pieces, just enough to allow him to judge her skill. But he found that he couldn't let her stop singing, afraid that if she was silent for more than a brief moment, that unique quality of her voice that held him so captivated would disappear and he would be left longing for it for the rest of his life. Finally, when he knew that he should not keep her longer—he could hear in her voice that she was growing tired, that she was not prepared for such an intense session—he felt something catch in his throat at the thought of simply letting her walk out. She would be perfectly content knowing that her place in the chorus was secure. But it would be such a shame to waste her potential, and the idea of being able to mold her voice himself, of making her a kind of personal project, was far too tempting.

Now that she had arrived for her first official lesson, doubt had started creeping over him. He ought to concentrate on the season ahead of him, on the myriad of tasks and decisions and negotiations that would fill the upcoming months, not devoting his afternoons to training a chorus girl. And if anyone found out that he was teaching her, there would undoubtedly be plenty of others clambering for the same attention, and he could hardly be this generous with every single performer employed at the Met. Besides that, he had a long history of close interactions with people turning sour very quickly, and that sort of thing was far from what he needed to be focused on.

She hesitated just beyond the doorway as if his gaze had frozen her in place. "I hope I am not disturbing you, Mr. Mason," she said softly. "I thought this was when I was supposed to meet with you, but if it's not a good time—"

"No," Erik said quickly. "You're correct. I just lost track of time. Let's begin."

He motioned to the piano as he stood and made his way over. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers fiddling with the buttons of her coat, and it was only then that he noticed the beads of water that clung to the wool and the few wet curls matted to her forehead.

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not hear you at the door. I hope you were not standing outside too long."

She shook her head. "Not long at all. Your maid let me in."

Hiring a small staff was not something he had been keen to do, but Armand had convinced him that the house he now inhabited—the house he'd purchased in a not entirely fashionable neighborhood after some careful investment had resulted in a fair bit of wealth—required it. While he was still not comfortable with having other people in his home, he had found that he did not need to come into much contact with anyone, preferring to let the household run itself.

"Please let me take your coat," he said, and she nodded in assent, shrugging the damp garment off. Her fingers brushed his as she handed it to him, her skin as cold as his after her trek here in the chilly April rain. For a second he wavered between beginning the lesson and asking if she first wanted to sit by the fire to warm herself, but the latter felt too familiar. Instead he draped her coat over the back of one of the armchairs to dry before taking up his position at the piano.

"We shall begin with proper warm-ups today to prepare your voice, as we should have done yesterday," he said as he took his seat. "I also have some exercises that will help you strengthen your range. Then we'll work on building up your repertoire, and of course improving your pronunciation."

"Oh." Her reply came softly and uncertainly, and he wondered if he had insulted her with the implication that there was so much to improve.

"I do not meant to suggest that you are inadequate in these respects," he continued quickly. "But there is always room to grow, especially if you wish to progress beyond the chorus."

"Of course," she said, her voice even. When he turned in the hopes of reading her expression, he found that it was as difficult to interpret as her tone—perhaps she was flustered, just as he was, and was trying to hide it.

Unable to think of anything else to do, he returned his attention to the piano and began to run her through the warm-ups, taking extra care as she was coming in out of the cool, damp weather. She sounded uncertain at first, too intensely aware of everything she was doing. He could make out her figure in his peripheral vision, and when he glanced her way, he could see how her hands were clasped awkwardly in front of her, how her shoulders hunched and her head bowed just slightly. This certainly wouldn't do, but he could hardly blame her for being uncomfortable. And yet the day before she had been so passionate, so lost in the music. He considered for a moment what to do. Asking her if she felt uncomfortable seemed both redundant and likely to increase her discomfort. Instead, after her voice was sufficiently warmed up, he turned to her again.

"Why are you here, Miss Daae?"

She seemed startled by the question and sank back a little. "Because you asked me to meet with you." The words sounded more like a question than an answer.

"And why do you think I asked you to meet with me?" She was silent for a moment, so he pressed her. "Do you believe that I offer to tutor every member of the chorus privately? Or that I lack anything else to do with my days?"

"No," she said quietly.

"I asked you here, Miss Daae, because I find you to be promising. You have a unique voice, and you clearly understand how to engage with the music you sing. The most important qualities are all present already—they just need some refining to shine as brightly as they can. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her voice was still soft, and he went on.

"You have nothing to prove to me, Miss Daae—all I need now is your effort."

She nodded, looking down. "All right. I apologize. I'm just… nervous."

"I understand."

He did understand, better than she likely realized. Simply having another person in the room, much less an unfamiliar person, was enough to put him on edge. It would be far easier to just dismiss her now, to spare them both the discomfort. But the memory of her voice the day before kept him from forming the words.

"I do want to teach you, Miss Daae," he said after a moment. "Am I correct in assuming that you want to learn?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I do want to learn."

"Then we want the same things." He wasn't sure if the assurance was meant more for himself or for her. Either way, he noticed her posture relax a little, and her expression appeared more resolved. "Perhaps the exercises can wait until tomorrow and we can work today on _Je veaux vivre_."

He was not sure where exactly this generosity was coming from. Ordinarily he would have expected to be annoyed that this girl crumbled so easily under the slightest amount of pressure, but nothing about her emotion felt over-exaggerated; she was entirely genuine, and he could not help but feel for her a little, just as he had when she had first approached him on the street.

As he had hoped, she did seem to grow more comfortable as they worked on the song, the music taking her mind off the strange man currently observing her. Her face visibly relaxed and her voice returned to its full, natural state; she listened to him attentively and seemed eager to follow his instructions, and after a while, Erik found that he, too, was less aware of the situation, focusing simply on the work.

If someone had told him even week ago that he would be taking on a student, he would have laughed—the idea of it still seemed most improbable. There were so many ways that this could go poorly when the mere fact of her presence set him on edge. Even now, as they began to ease into a state that, if not comfortable, was at least not as rigidly uncomfortable as before, he could not imagine that this would ever be enjoyable. If these lessons were tolerable, he supposed that was as much as he could hope for. He wanted to berate himself for being so weak, for allowing this girl to access his sympathy. Surely she had simply caught him at just the right moment, and at any other time he would have been able to walk away from her without a care. But now she was here, and he still could not find it in himself to dismiss her. He couldn't let her just walk away, leaving him to imagine what her voice might have become with his help.

Despite his misgivings, he must have become more wrapped up in the lesson than he'd realized; he was pulled back to reality when his attention was caught by the clock on the mantle chiming a later hour than he'd expected.

"I believe that will be sufficient for today," he announced, and when he turned to look over his shoulder at the girl, he noticed the way her shoulders sagged. Her face, though, appeared calm and content. At least as calm and content as she could feel with him.

"I lost track of time," she said quietly, bowing her head. "I'm sorry to have taken up too much of yours."

He shook his head. "I lost track of time as well. We will just have to be more careful in the future."

"So there are to be… more lessons?" she ventured cautiously.

"Yes. If that is still agreeable to you."

"Of course."

He remained at the piano as she crossed the room to gather her now dry things from the chair he'd placed them on. She paused before donning the garments, though, and looked back at him.

"Thank you for taking the time to work with me. I'm sorry I was so nervous today. This is just important to me."

For a moment he could not think of what to say in reply. Her voice had been so soft and entirely sincere that it had caught him off-guard.

"I understand," he said after a moment, the softness of his voice matching hers.

"Then I will see you again tomorrow?"

He gave a nod. "I will expect you at the same time as today, Miss Daae."

"Please do call me Christine, Mr. Mason."

He hesitated, again taken by surprise. It seemed terribly… informal. But perhaps the familiarity would make her more comfortable, even if it felt foreign to him. "Erik," he offered.

Her lips turned upward, forming a smile that was slight but that warmed her features in a way that held his gaze. "Very well. Erik."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey, folks! Thanks for joining me for a new story! I've been absolutely loving working on this, and it's so exciting to hear what you all think about it. I hope you keep following along!**

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As much as he had doubted whether or not he should teach her before that first lesson, once he had decided to continue, Erik found it surprisingly easy to slip into the new routine. Christine always seemed to arrive at the point in the day when his patience was at its lowest, and it wasn't long before he found himself all too happy to abandon his work for a while in favor of training her. She proved herself to be a quick study and an attentive student, clearly taking every word he spoke to heart and eagerly following his instructions. His attraction to her voice did not diminish as he had feared it might; instead he felt more drawn to her after each lesson, more eager to hear her sing again the next day. She threw herself into every song they worked on with her full force, as if the music required every ounce of passion she possessed at all times. Perhaps that burst of bold ambition that had compelled her to speak to him on the street had not been as uncharacteristic as he had first assumed. As the weeks passed, she gradually seemed to grow less timid with him, and although he made sure to keep his interactions with her cautious and measured—he needed to if he wanted this tentative relationship to have any longevity, as his relationships with others tended to grow hostile quickly—he was beginning to feel a little more at ease with all of this.

It occurred to him several weeks into their lessons that she had not once asked about the mask. Surely she had heard the rumors—he was well aware of the quite colorful gossip about him that circulated so widely—but Christine acted like she hardly noticed anything odd about him at all. It was likely only out of respect for his position that she concealed any curiosity she might feel, but he supposed that was at least a sign that she possessed some good sense. That, combined with her ambition, talent, and dedication, was enough to make her quite tolerable to him. At least she was tolerable enough that he did not mind spending most afternoons in her company, and that was more than he could say for anyone else.

In truth, he was reluctantly finding teaching her to be quite pleasant. She was talented, and it wouldn't take much refinement to make her a very promising addition to the company. At first he had toyed with the idea of giving her a small role at some point during the season, testing how she might fair on stage. But it wasn't long before, much to his surprise, the impulse to cast her as a lead for the season began to prick at him. He had tried to brush off the idea; he'd started listening to her much more critically when she sang, searching for evidence that she would not be able to handle such an undertaking. She was inexperienced and unprepared for the pressures of being a lead, but although she certainly needed training, she never completely fell apart under his scrutiny. Her voice, her presence, enthralled him. With some refinement, she would be world-class. Better, even. And this was, after all, just the kind of impact that he wanted to have as the musical director, promoting voices that were new and unique, that nobody yet knew they wanted but that would be called strokes of genius once experienced.

Of course, this justification would not make it any easier to explain to the board that he wanted to cast a completely unknown and untested singer over a bigger name that was sure to sell tickets and garner glowing reviews. Even after he knew that he would not easily be able to bury the idea of casting her, he put off mentioning it to anyone else, half hoping that if he waited long enough he would be able to talk himself out of it. The thought of having to pander to men who looked down on him still made him bristle, but he was coming to accept the necessity of it, at least for now. He would resign himself to working within their delicate sensibilities and rigid social codes, carefully inserting his influence wherever he could while trying not to make more enemies than he already had. He had risen this far because of the favor he'd gained with the right people, and if he needed to continue to seek respect in order to eventually have the control he wanted, then so be it. The potential for all the work he could do at the company, all the beauty he could render and all the growth he could usher in, had to be worth a bit of pandering to the boorish men who considered themselves bastions of culture. Casting Christine threw a wrench into this plan and, truthfully, he was not entirely sure it was a battle worth picking.

Still, whenever he felt that he was close to talking himself out of it, she would arrive for their lesson, greeting him with an earnest, gentle smile, and any resolve that he had reached would quickly begin to fade. As soon as she began to sing, he would find himself again picturing her on stage, singing even more gloriously than she did now and making her debut to great acclaim. The image was too tantalizing to give up completely.

Finally, the morning came when Armand arrived for a final meeting with him before retreating to Newport for the summer, and Erik knew he could not put off presenting the idea any longer. Preparations for the season would move more slowly over the next few months with the bulk of the company's leadership out of the city, and Armand was checking up on him to ensure that everything was set to move forward smoothly in their absence. Erik supposed that he could at least take a bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that he would likely be sending Armand off to his summer retreat with something new to worry over.

Armand arrived exactly when expected and easily took his place across the desk from Erik, exchanging the brief pleasantries that his upbringing dictated despite the fact that he knew well that Erik did not care for such conversation and would much rather get to what they were here to discuss. But Armand, good-natured as ever, did not seem to take any offense to Erik's terse replies to his questions.

"Anyway," he said finally, "construction is still on schedule and all of the planning appears to be going smoothly. Is there anything that you're concerned about?"

_Very much so_, Erik thought. "No, although I am glad to hear that construction is still going well. I have been meaning to go back over to the opera house and take a look at the progress myself."

"As long as the visit will not make you want to interfere too badly," Armand countered. His tone was light, but Erik knew that he was meant to take the words as a warning.

"Of course. As long as everything is as it should be."

Armand leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms but made no direct reply. "And you have decided on a suitable schedule for the season?"

"I believe so. _Faust_ and plenty of Wagner, which should please the board and will draw audiences should we tour in the spring. Some pieces less common for the company, too—_Pagliacci_, which will be a premiere for us but has been well-received elsewhere, _Rigoletto_, _Le Nozze di Figaro_. Nothing too revelatory for the board, I hope."

"I'm sure that will all be fine."

"I am also considering casting a new artist who I find very promising," he went on, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible, although he could already see Armand waiting to comment on the matter. "I believe she will be an important part of the company's future."

Armand looked hesitant, as Erik had expected. "The others have made it clear that they… strongly suggest sticking with more established artists. The general feeling is that we ought to minimize risk this season and focus on recovery."

"As musical director, I would consider it my duty to introduce new talent, wouldn't you agree? This young woman could very well prove to be a major asset. I find her promising enough that I have taken on training her myself."

Armand gave a careful nod of acknowledgment. "Knowing you as I do, that does speak highly of her skill. And I understand how important it is to seek out new talent and keep the company vibrant. But you say that this young woman is a new artist. What experience does she have?"

"She was a recent addition to the chorus." Erik hoped that that would not make it sound like she had never performed before, which was the truth, but Armand's brows shot up anyway.

"So she's inexperienced. And you want to cast her in a named role?"

"A lead role." He knew that the correction would not help his case, but he had to admit that he was getting some pleasure from watching Armand's reactions.

"A lead role," Armand echoed, considering his next words for a moment before speaking again. "Erik, I am well aware that I cannot sway you once your mind is made up. But you know how cautious the board is, and you know that they have perfectly good reason to be. There are still those who are watching for any reason to remove you from your current position. If I were you, I would put more consideration into ingratiating myself before attempting to sell them on another person."

"And how exactly would you recommend I go about ingratiating myself? I have done my best to make concessions to please the board, but I am not one to grovel, and I am growing tired of debasing myself and tempering my opinions to try to win over men who have had their minds closed against me from the very beginning." Erik spoke evenly but could not prevent a bit of bitterness from seeping into his words. "If my only purpose as musical director is to bend to the will of others, then why have you appointed me?"

"I understand your frustration," Armand said, although Erik was beginning to feel that the words rang a little less true each time he said them. "Believe me, I do, and I am not unsympathetic. But you must also recognize the great strides that you have made already. These men who you say are so firmly set against you would not have spared a glance in your direction a few years ago, and now they have given you a chance at a place of authority. Isn't it possible that, given some time and patience, they might come to accept you further if you just try to please them a little more now?"

"Perhaps," Erik allowed after a moment. "But it seems likely to me that their opinions of me are set, and I do not know what I could do to become more palatable to them without utterly demeaning myself."

He had expected a quick reply that only repeated the sentiments that Armand had expressed dozens of times before, but to his surprise, Armand seemed to actually give the statement consideration.

"I suppose a softer image could help. You do come off quite brusquely, you know."

"I _am_ brusque. And if a potential career requires a complete change in personality, I might as well resign now."

"Then work on aligning yourself with the right people. Find people who will soften your image. Connect yourself to those who people cannot help but like. Maybe even find yourself a wife."

The last part was said in jest, and Erik snorted derisively. "What in the world could I possibly do to trap a charming young lady into marriage?"

Armand gave a half-amused, half-exasperated sigh. "All I am saying is that perhaps you should try to sway people a little more. Even if there are those in power who dislike you, there are also those who would be more open to you given the right circumstances. You know that I want to help you, Erik, but there is only so much that I can do."

Erik gave a begrudging nod, knowing that there was really nothing more to say about the matter. Everything would have to carry on as it was. He wouldn't be happy about it, but there was nothing else to be done. He'd never been an easy person to like, and since being left alone had always suited him perfectly well, he had never tried to be. The hardness, the stubbornness, the coolness, these had all be essential traits for so much of his life, and he had learned to hold onto them tightly like a protective barrier between him and the rest of the world. He had no intention of lowering that barrier, even now—it was just too risky. Unless he could devise another way to gain more favor, this was simply the way things were for now.

"As for the matter of casting," Armand went on. "I would strongly advise you to reconsider. If there is no changing your mind, I am certain that it will be a hard-fought battle to justify your decision and, to be frank with you, you may not emerge with your position intact."

The words sat heavily with Erik—more heavily than he would have admitted—even after Armand left. He would not put it past certain members of the board to use a single risky decision to remove him from his position, and surely championing Christine was not worth such a price. He would simply have to be patient. He would prove his skill and earn the begrudging respect of the men who looked down on him now, and then he would be able to do as he pleased. It would take time, but as much as the fact infuriated him, there was no way around it.

It was a relief when Christine arrived, providing him with a distraction from his thoughts. She greeted him with her usual smile when she came in, and again he noticed the earnest warmth in her expression and how it set him just a little more at ease, as if there was something about her that naturally settled everyone around her. The thought vaguely occurred to him that perhaps this would be a good quality to balance his natural prickliness, and although he refused to let the idea fully form in his mind, he could feel the seed of it sticking.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mason." She still addressed him by his surname more often than not, despite insisting that he call her by her given name.

"Christine." He took his usual place at the piano, still trying to shake off the absurd idea pricking at the edge of his mind. Perhaps the first part of Armand's suggestion—that he align himself with someone who people could not help but like—had merit. The marriage part had been at least mostly a joke, but then again, he knew no one else who tolerated him as well as Christine seemed to, and she was certainly charming enough. Of course, there was a significant difference between tolerating someone as a teacher and tolerating someone as… He caught the thought before it could continue and forced it from his head. Everything about the idea was completely ridiculous, and it didn't deserve to be allowed to fully form.

"It's such a beautiful day out," Christine was saying as she removed her gloves and bonnet and placed them on one of the chairs opposite his desk. "It finally feels like summer is beginning."

Erik hummed distractedly in reply, trying to turn his attention fully to their lesson. If Christine noticed the thoughtful distance in his demeanor, she did not react to it; it was quite possible that, as far as she saw, this was no different from his usual coolness.

He watched her carefully through their lesson, more carefully than normal. She did cut quite a pretty figure: petite, bright eyes, her dark curls seeming perpetually on the verge of escaping their careful arrangement. He wasn't sure if he had ever noticed before how attractive she was. Her face shone like there was a permanent ray of sun fixed on her, and even when her lips pursed and her brow furrowed in concentration, there was a kind of charm about the expression. If anyone could make him seem more pleasant simply by proximity, it was probably her. If she grew cross with him during their lessons, she never let it show, even when he knew he was being more meticulous than necessary, and she did always seem happy enough to see him.

And of course that was because he was helping her. Most or all of her tolerance for him came from her desire to further her career, and he couldn't blame her for that. He certainly wouldn't flatter himself enough to think that she enjoyed spending time with him just for his company. But he supposed that an arrangement like the one he was very rashly beginning to imagine would allow them even more time to work together, thereby allowing her to improve more. That much could not be disagreeable to her. As for the rest… he couldn't imagine that she would find it _appealing_, but he could make it as unobjectionable for her as possible.

The idea had now fully taken root in his mind, very much in spite of himself and in spite of the many, many flaws he knew colored it. It was reckless and ill-advised at best. There was, however, a kind of strange giddiness at the thought of having this problem solved, having greater assurance that he could gain the favor he needed to secure his position indefinitely and have far greater freedom than he was allowed now. The feeling was enough to propel him forward despite the doubts he knew he should have.

When they had finished their lesson and Christine went to retrieve her things, Erik took a seat across the desk from her and motioned for her to do the same. "Miss Daae—"

"Christine," she corrected with a smile.

"Christine. If you wouldn't mind staying for another minute."

"Of course," she said quietly, perching on one of the armchairs, her brows knitting together slightly as she waited to hear what he had to say.

Erik's chest constricted and he took a breath to steady himself. This was terribly, terribly foolish. But he figured that he had nothing to lose. At worst she would refuse him and put an end to their lessons, and while he did want to continue working on her voice, it was not as important as the potential of what he could accomplish if this all went the way he imagined.

"Christine," he said again, glancing up at her but quickly looking away. Her name suddenly felt very odd on his lips. "I want to speak with you about a… a proposition of sorts. However, it is a rather delicate subject, about which I wish to speak frankly, and I do not want to offend you."

"I've never been one to offend easily," she replied. "Please be as frank as you wish."

Erik shifted in his seat. "I find myself in a position where it would be greatly beneficial to curate a more… palatable image for myself—I'm respected enough as an artist but not enough to be accepted as a peer of the gentlemen who make up the board of directors for the opera, and this could prove to be a hindrance to my career. After some consideration, I have concluded that there is a clear place to start, a step with immediate and significant effect: marriage."

Christine gave a slight nod, but it was only after another second that Erik saw understanding flash across her face. Even through her evident surprise, she seemed to grow thoughtful, and he decided to take it as a good sign that she did not immediately stand and bolt for the door.

"Such an arrangement would allow us to continue our lessons indefinitely; indeed it would allow us much more time to work together. You have found our lessons to your benefit, have you not?"

"Yes," Christine said faintly. "Yes, they have been very instructive."

"You would be comfortable and have whatever you desire," Erik continued. "You would be able to devote yourself entirely to your art rather than toiling at that department store. And, rest assured, the arrangement would be a marriage in name only. I would expect nothing from you—not even your time, outside of our lessons."

He paused, then, searching her expression for a hint at what she was thinking but finding that he couldn't quite read her. She sat still and straight, her eyes lowered, her hands folded neatly in her lap. When she said nothing, he spoke again, a little more cautiously as the reality of what he had just asked of her sank in.

"I hope I have not upset you."

"No," she replied quickly. "You have just given me something to think about. And, I must admit, it is not something that I was expecting."

"But you are… considering?" he ventured carefully, his breath catching when she nodded. It was a few seconds before he could find his voice again. "Well then. Please take your time thinking it over. I will take no offense if you refuse, and I will not withhold further training should you still wish to continue our lessons. But I do believe that such an arrangement would be beneficial for both of us."

She nodded again and looked up to meet his eyes, the directness and clarity of her gaze surprising him a little. "I will consider it."


	4. Chapter 4

This was not crazy, Christine told herself. Not entirely, anyway. Agreeing to marry a man she hadn't known a month, a man she knew almost nothing about, was not the worst decision that anyone had ever made. It was actually perfectly sensible. She paused and studied her reflection in the slightly warped mirror that hung over the plain little dressing table in her room, tucking away a few stray strands of hair. Not that she needed to be particularly worried about her appearance, she supposed. Meg would be their only witness at the church, and Erik had never seemed to take much notice of how she looked. Erik.

It felt strange and too informal to call him by his given name, even in her own mind, even though he had long asked her to use it. She always insisted that he use her given name, but using his had just never felt quite right. Even when she had gone to him and accepted his proposal, she'd had to force herself to call him Erik. She would have to get used to it now.

No, she decided resolutely, it was not crazy for her to have agreed to marry him. This arrangement could be what allowed her to truly grow into herself as an artist—she had already noticed such a change in her voice since they had started their lessons, and she could only imagine what would be possible with continued instruction. He could see to it that her career progressed. There would be no more suggestions from the women around the boarding house that she was one of _those_ kinds of shopgirls when she returned late from a lesson. She would have a more comfortable life than what she had known in many years. Plenty of people married for less.

There had only been one man before who had brought marriage into her thoughts. He'd only been a boy, really; they had barely been more than children. But even the two of them, two people terribly prone to fantasy and daydreams, had both been aware that anything beyond the summer they had spent together in that little town on the coast was simply not possible. He had left with his family, and it had only been a matter of months before the wracking cough that had long been festering in Mama's lungs finally took her, and then Christine had been alone. Any heartbreak that she might have felt from the end of that fleeting dream of marriage was immediately overtaken by the grief of losing her last familial figure, and she had not suffered from the desire to marry since then.

Instead, she'd turned her passion toward pursuing music. After Mama passed, Christine had taken the precious little money she'd had left and used it to get to the city and secure her little room in the boarding house. She had told herself that her dedication to the pursuit of her dream would be enough to sustain her, but every night of that first week, she found herself quietly crying herself to sleep, wondering how it was possible to live among so many people and still feel so completely isolated. But then she had met Meg and her loneliness had eased a little. That had been only a few months before her ill-fated audition, and Christine realized with a start that that meant less than two years had passed since her summer with Raoul. It seemed so much longer ago, lifetimes ago. Had the past two years really hardened her enough to make that relatively carefree time feel like her distant childhood? She shook the thoughts from her head; these were not thoughts for her wedding day.

There was a knock at the door and Meg entered, greeting her with a gentle smile. "You look lovely, Christine. Are you almost ready?"

"Almost. And thank you."

Christine stood back a little to examine her dress in the mirror, smoothing the ivory satin of the tight-fitting bodice. She had assured Erik that the dress was not necessary—he had already ordered several others for her, as all of her clothes were quite plain and worn and not befitting of her new position as the wife of one of the up-and-coming _nouveau riche_. The new dresses were already finer than any of the clothes she'd had in years, and she had tried to insist that one of them would suit her perfectly fine today. But Erik's insistence had been stronger. Perhaps it was his way of trying to repay her for the favor she was doing him, at least in his eyes. Or perhaps he simply figured that if she looked more like a bride, there would be less room for others of his set to question the nature of the relationship and the very sudden betrothal.

"I thought you could use this." Christine looked over her shoulder to find Meg watching her, her expression warm as she held out a small corsage of wax orange blossoms. "I know that this will not be the most traditional marriage, but I suppose I have a weakness for the customs."

"Thank you, Meg." Her voice wavered a little and she felt tears spring to her eyes, although she could not entirely discern the reason for them. Instead of letting her thoughts linger, she accepted the corsage from Meg and turned back to the mirror to fasten it to her bodice. Giving her reflection a final glance, she braced herself to meet her own eyes, prepared to see the sadness in them. If she had ever pictured her wedding day, this is surely not how she would have imagined it—marrying a near stranger, no romance, without her father or even Mama and the professor to share the day with her. But when she did examine her expression, she found that it was not one of disappointment or heartbreak. It was one of contented resignation, and the knowledge settled her a little.

"You look like a bride," Meg told her, and she smiled gratefully and took her friend's hands.

"I'm glad that you will be there today."

"I am too." Meg seemed to hesitate for a second before she spoke again, her words a little timid this time. "Are you certain about this, Christine? You know that you don't have to go through with anything if you don't want to. I know that you've been discouraged with how everything is going, but things will turn around if you give them some time. Don't make a commitment you'll regret just to fix things right now."

"I know," Christine said softly. "I have thought about it a lot, and I'm sure. It may not be the romantic path, but… but it's safe. And I have dreamed of safety more than romance for quite some time. I am certain I will be happy enough this way."

Meg appeared doubtful, but she gave a nod and accepted the answer. "Well then, we should get you to the church. We wouldn't want to keep your fiancé waiting."

Her words were playful, and Christine couldn't help but smile, despite the slight snag she felt in her chest at the word _fiancé_.

"You're right. We should go. But Meg—" She paused for a second until Meg met her eyes. "I do appreciate your concern. You have been watching over me since we met. And I really am so glad that you'll be with me today. You're a good friend."

Meg's smile softened and she took a step forward to wrap Christine in her arms. Christine accepted the embrace gratefully; physical comfort had been scarce since she'd lost Mama, and the gentle pressure of Meg's arms around her was just what she needed. The feeling of being close to another person, of being cared for… it was something that she missed terribly. Erik had told her that their marriage would be in name only, and he had certainly kept her at arm's length during the short time she had known him, even after she had agreed to marry him. But perhaps simply having another person around, having someone who was bound to her in such a permanent way, would help ease the loneliness that had become a constant ache in her chest.

* * *

Erik had arrived at the church early, having run out of ways to divert his attention and feeling too restless to remain at home any longer. It felt a little odd to push open the heavy wooden doors and walk into the silent chamber. He had never been a religious man, much less a churchgoing one, and the foreignness of it all made his skin prickle. Taking a seat on a hard pew toward the front of the nave, he settled himself down to wait, doing his best not to fidget even though there was no one around for him to disturb; he was completely alone, and he couldn't help but think with a twinge of regret that this might be the last time he was. He would be leaving this building with a wife, and she would theoretically share his home for the rest of their lives. Although, he supposed, once their respective careers took off, they would likely be able to keep themselves busy enough to see very little of each other. She could even go on tour, sing with the great companies of Europe, allowing him to return to his blessed solitude for a while.

Despite these misgivings, he didn't truly regret the arrangement. It would help both of them. He would secure his position, perhaps even rise to greater heights, all the while fostering a young artist who could be a part of his legacy as much as anything else. Any hesitation he had ever felt about working with her was long gone. Her voice captivated him more with each lesson, and she was already showing greater improvement than he had anticipated. Now he would have more opportunity to work with her, more opportunity to hone her into the force of nature that she could become. He supposed he couldn't really complain about that.

After a while he was finally able to quiet his thoughts, focusing instead on the dust that he could see floating in a ray of the late afternoon sun, basking in this rare moment of peace. It didn't last long, though, as soon the priest approached to great him. Erik shook the man's hand, noticing that, to his credit, he didn't give the mask a second glance. He'd spent years trying to create the most discreet veneer possible, longing for the day when he might not catch people's attention, but the mask still looked far too artificial for his liking. He had grown used to pretending not to notice the stares he attracted on the street or the murmurs of pity or disgust, but it was much more difficult to let these things pass when meeting with a single person.

The priest asked him a few questions about himself and the bride-to-be, having kindly agreed to marry them on only a few days' notice and despite them not being congregants, and Erik answered the questions haltingly. No, neither of them had any family to speak of. Yes, they had both considered deeply what it means to make this vow before God. His answers were brief, as he had no desire to talk in too much detail about his life or to reveal just how little he knew about Christine. Fortunately the questions did not last long, as she was due to arrive soon with the friend who would be their witness.

Erik was torn between terror and numbness as he followed the priest up to the altar. Marriage had never been something he had considered or even wanted; even with the practicality and distance of this arrangement, surely he would not make a good husband. Christine would tire of him quickly and the marriage would soon become more of a burden than anything else. This suddenly seemed like a terrible mistake. There were plenty of other ways to improve his social standing, and if he hadn't acted so rashly, if he had just been willing to play the game for a while, he could have thought of a much better plan than this. What if all he had done was ensure years of misery for both of them?

Then the doors at the end of the nave opened and his attention was drawn to the two figures entering, and there was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he looked at Christine. She was perfectly lovely in the simple ivory gown, the pale fabric highlighting the rosy color of her cheeks. She paused as her friend said something that Erik could not hear, but he saw her give a nod and squeeze her friend's hand, and then they turned and were making their way down the aisle. Christine looked up and met Erik's eyes as she approached, and he suddenly felt that he was standing too stiffly and there didn't seem to be a right place to put his hands. A small smile tugged at her lips, and he hoped that he returned it. In another moment she was by his side, and it was a second or two before he remembered that he was meant to take her hands.

"Are you ready?" she asked quietly, although he knew that what she meant was, _Are you sure?_

"I am. Are you?" He spoke with more assurance than he felt, although the fear that this had been a mistake had abated some for the moment. She seemed to relax a little at this.

"I am too."

Erik was vaguely aware, then, that the priest was speaking, but he could hardly make out his voice over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. His heart thudded heavily and he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Christine, her dark eyes warm and her expression surprisingly peaceful considering she was binding herself to him for life. Her hands were soft and warm in his, and he tried to recall if a woman had ever taken his hand before. Perhaps his mother, when he was very young and she was attempting to reign him in, but their relationship had grown more resentful as he'd grown older, and then she had been gone, and now those earlier, happier memories felt few and far between. But Christine had slipped her hands into his as if it was nothing, as if she took no notice of how cool and boney his grasp was.

She would want to see his face at some point, surely. The mask was not a topic that had come up yet, and he had been happy enough to continue avoiding it, but now cold panic gripped him at the thought. Sooner or later she'd start asking questions, and what would he do then? Would he be forced to hide from her to avoid the confrontation, a prisoner in his own home, or would he have no choice but to show her and face her repulsion? Where would it leave them if she was unable to even look him in the eye?

Suddenly his was aware that the drone of the priest's voice had stopped, and he found both him and Christine watching him, a silent question in the slight crease of Christine's brow. Erik drew in a shaky breath, not entirely sure he wanted to say the words they were waiting for but finding himself saying them anyway.

"I do."

The priest repeated the question to Christine, and Erik felt a unexpected stab of fear at the thought that she might change her mind now, although he reminded himself that perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing if she did. Maybe he should even hope that she would change her mind. It wasn't as if he would be left brokenhearted. Still, he breathed a small sigh of relief when she spoke.

"I do."

The rest of the short ceremony was a blur. He remembered carefully sliding the ring onto her slender finger, and then she did the same. The plain gold band was a foreign weight that was impossible for him to ignore, a constant reminder of an arrangement he suddenly felt quite confused by, as if he had not been the one to instigate it. And then they were husband and wife and she was looking up at him expectantly—or perhaps it was wariness that he saw in her expression. Very gently, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her forehead.

In only a few minutes, the marriage certificate was signed and he was helping his new wife into his carriage, the usual bustle of the city surrounding them as if the entire world had not just shifted.

The ride back to his home was quiet. Erik felt very much as though he should say something, but no words would come to him. Christine sat across from him, her face placid as she watched the city pass by and idly fiddled with the ring that now adorned her left hand. Occasionally he would glance up at her and meet her eyes, and she would give him a small, uncertain smile before glancing away. They were rounding the corner onto his street—their street—when he finally spoke.

"You look very nice." It was true, though he felt more than a little uncomfortable having said it. It was simply the first full, coherent sentence he'd been able to think of, despite the fact that he normally made a point not to notice such things. A man of a more romantic persuasion might have even described her as lovely. He would not have disagreed with the description.

"Thank you," she replied softly. "You look nice as well."

Erik doubted she meant it, but there was no need to reply as the carriage lurched to a stop in front of the house. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and she took his hand automatically again as she climbed out, and again he was surprised when she did not flinch at the contact or immediately pull away.

"I have all of your things waiting for you," he told her as he led her inside. He'd had to work quickly to prepare a room for her, but he imagined that just about anything would be an improvement on the room she had been living in at the boarding house.

"Thank you," she said again.

"Perhaps you should see the room before you thank me," he said, turning to catch her small smile at this.

"Very well."

She followed him upstairs to a door at the top of the steps—he had figured that she would want some distance between her room and his, which sat at the end of the hall, and this was the nicest room anyway. Opening the door, he allowed her to step inside first, watching her expression change as she took in the space.

"If anything is not to your taste, I am certain we can—"

She shook her head. "It's lovely."

He breathed a small sigh of relief at this. Even if he'd had more time, preparing the room still would have been a challenge simply since he knew so little of her taste. The pale blue floral wallpaper had seemed appropriately delicate, and the Louis XVI bed that sat at one end of the room and the matching wardrobe and dressing table across from it had seemed elegant but not overly extravagant. The large windows on the far wall looked out onto the garden, allowing the fading sunlight to seep in with the faint scent of roses. Erik had been fairly certain, at least, that Christine did not expect anything too grand, but he had worried a bit that the room would just be one more reason for her to be unhappy with him. The fact that that didn't seem to be the case put him more at ease.

"I hope you'll be comfortable," he said as Christine stepped further into the room.

"I'm sure I will be."

"That door there leads to your ensuite. If you find anything lacking, please let me know. I want you to feel… at home." The words felt strange in his mouth, and Christine shifted as though they sounded just as strange to her.

"I will. Thank you."

A long moment passed in silence, and she looked as uncertain as he felt as he searched for the correct thing to say or do now.

"Are those all of your things?" Erik asked eventually, glancing to the single trunk that had been brought up earlier that day.

"Yes," she said. "That's everything."

He gave a nod. "I'm sure you would like to get settled in, then. Would you like any supper sent up to you? Or some tea?"

"Won't you have supper with me? It is our wedding day, after all." Her voice was light and she spoke with a slight smile, but there was a touch of sadness in her expression that made something in him catch.

"If you wish. I have ordered supper for eight. Is there anything you need in the meantime?"

"No," she said. "Thank you."

He almost wished she would stop thanking him—any favor he was doing her was not enough compared to what he had asked of her in return.

* * *

Christine wasn't sure if she was grateful or not when Erik left her alone. It was a relief, at least, not to have to search for something to say, continually glancing up at him but finding him completely unreadable. His presence as he had lingered in her doorway had seemed more unnerving than it ever had before; it was nothing about _him_ that had changed, but simply the realization that she had bound herself to a stranger sinking in. Now, alone in this beautiful room that was so unlike the one she had grown used to, exhaustion suddenly weighed heavily on her. Removing the corsage that Meg had given her and placing it on the dressing table, she collapsed unceremoniously onto the bed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

She couldn't quite explain why she felt like crying. The situation was more or less what she had expected—what she had _wanted_. She was comfortable and secure. The days that stretched out ahead of her would be filled with music. She would be able to practice and improve, and soon enough her nights would be spent on the reconstructed stage of the opera house. Surely, there was nothing about this new life that she could fairly complain about. The reminder calmed her nerves a little, and she took a deep breath and let her arms drop to her sides, though she did not yet open her eyes. No, it wasn't fair of her to be upset, not when she had agreed to this knowing full well what it would mean for her, not when Erik had clearly done so much to ensure that she was comfortable. She supposed it would just take a little time for her to grow accustomed to everything, and _that_ was understandable enough. In a single hour, her entire life had changed to the point of being unrecognizable.

She remained where she was for a few more minutes before pushing herself upright again and standing to begin unpacking her things. Not that she had much to unpack. The wardrobe was already stocked with new clothes, as well as pristine, white underthings, which made her face heat as she thought of Erik ordering them for her. The dressing table displayed a gleaming new vanity set, and there was even a small stack of books arranged for her on the little table beside the plush chair that sat by the windows. The only things she had that were of any real worth to her were the silver case containing a tintype of her mother on one side and one of her father on the other, which she placed gingerly on the dressing table, and her father's violin in its battered case, which she left in the safety of her trunk.

With that done, she changed her dress, swapping the pristine ivory silk for a skirt and shirtwaist—too informal for evening, perhaps, but it made her feel more like herself, and Erik didn't seem like the kind of man to take issue with what she wore. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, part of her expected to see a great change in her features since she'd stood in her room at the boarding house. It almost seemed impossible for there not to be a single difference in her face now, some new trace of grimness or contentment or wisdom. But she looked just the same as she had that morning. Despite everything that had shifted around her, she was the same person she had always been, and the thought eased some of the tension in her shoulders.

Still, as she turned to make her way downstairs to have supper with her new husband, she couldn't help but feel that the woman she'd been when she'd entered the church that morning was growing a little more distant with each passing minute.


	5. Chapter 5

The first few days of married life were not what Christine would have expected. Of course, when she had been a small child imagining herself as a bride, she had not exactly pictured herself marrying for convenience, much less marrying for her career. But even if this was the situation that she had always expected, she would not have known what the first days of her new life would look like. She would wake before dawn in her beautiful, comfortable room, her body still insisting that she needed to rise and get ready for a job she no longer had. After trying unsuccessfully to ease her restlessness and return to sleep, she would resign herself to being awake and would wash and dress. After her first night here, she had started making an effort to get used to wearing her new silk dresses most days—Erik had gone through the trouble of ordering them for her, and anyway, they would never start to feel like her own clothes if she never wore them. Then she would settle in the comfortable chair by the window and look out onto the garden below her until the maid arrived with her breakfast.

Erik kept a very minimal staff—something she'd assured him several times that she had no objection to—consisting of only a maid, a cook, and a driver, all of whom were only there at certain hours and all of whom seemed to avoid direct contact with Erik as much as possible. Louise, the maid, was a shy young woman who made herself so scarce that Christine might have questioned her existence if not for the tidiness of the house and the couple of times during the day that she happened to see her. Louise had appeared not to know what to do the first time she had carried in Christine's breakfast tray only to find her up and already dressed.

"You needn't struggle with your hair and clothes yourself, ma'am," she'd said quietly. "Part of my duties are to assist you."

"Of course," Christine replied, shifting in her seat and trying to dispel the awkwardness gathering in her chest. She wondered how long it would take her to get used to being the employer of a girl who would have been her peer only a week ago. "I suppose I'm just stuck in my old habits."

"I can imagine it's been an adjustment. But you will let me know if you want anything."

"I will, Louise. Thank you." Christine nearly asked if she might sit with her for a while, but the words caught in her throat and Louise surely would have found it highly irregular, and so she ate her breakfast alone.

For much of the day Erik was kept busy by the opera and either remained ensconced in his study or was out taking meetings or reviewing progress on the reconstruction of the opera house. Christine had expected as much coming into this new life—in the short time she'd known Erik, it had become quite clear that he was a man who threw himself into his ventures with great passion and dedication, and even if this hadn't been the case, she knew she could hardly have expected him to constantly be at her disposal. This meant, however, that she was left to her own devices for most of the day and, no longer having a job to go to, she struggled to find ways of filling her time. It wasn't her place to help clean the house or prepare the meals, and she quickly found that leisure made her feel quite useless. The first morning was spent exploring the house, getting a feel for where everything was. But Erik's home, while certainly large and not lacking any comforts that she could think of, was not like one of the sprawling mansions that lined Fifth Avenue, and so it wasn't long before she had to look for a new diversion.

Eventually she found herself in the small room just past Erik's study that he had presented to her as the library. In truth there was little to the space _but_ books. Tall mahogany bookcases lined every wall, leaving little room for anything but the chair and side table that sat in the center of the room. Christine browsed the books carefully, surprised by the variety of subjects contained in Erik's collection. She only found a handful of novels, but there were many volumes of poetry to entice her. There were books on history and art, on places that she had never even heard of, on architecture and medicine and languages. The diagrams in the architectural books intrigued her as she flipped through them, although the pages were filled with words she did not understand and passages she could not make sense of. She resolved to read these anyway, to work through them all until she did understand. It wasn't as if she had anything else pressing to do.

The afternoons were the times she really looked forward to. Erik had set aside more time for their lessons, and when their scheduled time came, she would make her way to his study and find the door ajar, inviting her in. Something about stepping into that room always made her feel a little easier, a little steadier. This had been their routine for as long as they had known each other, and returning to it now felt natural. The lessons, this relationship, was something familiar in the midst of all this change.

Erik would always be behind his desk, looking up from the work in front of him as she came in. And although he tended to be stiff and reserved, even now that they had agreed to spend their lives together, something about him always seemed to soften just a little bit and the corners of his mouth would quirk in a small smile.

"Good afternoon, Christine."

"Good afternoon." Perhaps it was only because the last few days had had so little contact with others, but she was finding that she quite liked the way he said her name.

"How are you today?" He had started asking her this after she had agreed to marry him, and the question was always a little timid, as if he wasn't sure it was his place to ask.

"Well, thank you. I have just been exploring your library." Christine hoped that she did not betray the boredom and loneliness that were creeping in—she would hate to appear ungrateful for everything he was giving her. "And you?"

"Better now that I can turn to a much more pleasant task," he said, standing and coming around to the piano, and her smile grew a little.

It was odd to think that the man she had barely come to know as her teacher was now her husband. He was certainly true to his word that this would be a marriage in name only—he was every bit as kind and generous toward her as he had always been, but he made sure to keep his distance. If she had not asked him to have supper with her, she doubted that she would ever see him outside of their lessons. He'd seemed surprised when she had asked him to continue sharing the meal with her after that first night when things had been so uncertain and uncomfortable.

She had kept her steps silent as she emerged from her room and made her way downstairs, although she'd known that this was technically her home now and she should not feel such an intense need to be as unobtrusive as possible. The dining room was near Erik's study, just beyond the parlor that she had never seen occupied by anyone, and Erik was already seated when she'd arrived. He had seemed absorbed in some paperwork but looked up immediately when she entered. She had noticed that he, too, had changed out of the fine suit he had worn to the church, and it was a relief to find him in his normal clothes. As if she was sitting down to have supper with her teacher and not her husband.

"Are you… settling in?" Erik had asked as she took a seat across from him.

"I am, thank you." She'd both wanted to say more and wanted to stay silent, and she wavered a moment between the two. "I do love the room—it's just perfect. It was kind of you to make such an effort for me."

He'd looked down at the table, giving a half-shrug. "I wanted you to be comfortable."

There had not been a chance to reply before Louise came in carrying the platters of food, and Christine had filled her plate eagerly, suddenly ravenously hungry. For a short time, then, she'd been happy enough to eat in silence, her gaze occasionally flicking up from her plate to the man at the other end of the table. He ate with more caution than she did, and she'd been reminded of the caution and severity he'd displayed at their first few lessons. While far from behaving casually now, that severity had started to ease a little. At least it had until that night.

It had occurred to her suddenly just how little she knew about Erik. Of course this was not the first time the thought had occurred to her—truthfully, it had caused her quite a bit of concern while she had considered his proposal—but sitting here with him now, it hit her afresh. This time, though, the thought did not concern her. It amused her. It was a little absurd, really. Maybe it was just an effect of her tired mind, but it actually seemed a little funny, and she hadn't quite been able suppress a smile.

Erik had noticed. "What is it?"

Christine's smile had grown despite her effort to reign in this burst of hysterical humor. "Perhaps we ought to get to know each other a little now."

A second had passed as he observed her, and then the corners of his mouth had twitched, as if the absurdity of the whole situation was dawning on him too. "Well then, Miss Daae, please tell me about yourself."

Christine had thought for a moment. "My mother and father came here to escape the famine in Sweden, when they were expecting me. They had only been in the country for a few months when I was born, and my mother died shortly after from complications. My father raised me alone and, as you know, was the concertmaster at the Academy for a number of years. He was already ill by the time further seasons were cancelled, so we moved to the country for his health. Eventually he passed and I was taken in by an older couple we'd become close with. I stayed with them until they were both gone too, and I came back to the city about a year ago to pursue singing."

"So you have always wanted to perform?"

"For as long as I can remember." The talk of her father and Mama and Professor Valerius had made that unpleasant tightness start to rise in her chest, and she had taken a small sip of her wine to ease it. "And you?"

Erik had shifted in his chair, clearly hesitant—the strangely jovial mood that had started this conversation was quickly disappearing, leaving an odd feeling that was much more difficult to discern. When he'd started to speak, his words were halting.

"I was born in a small town outside of Baltimore—my mother's family home, where everyone knew and cared for her. She raised me on her own and never talked about my father." He'd stopped and swallowed, his discomfort so palpable that it was enough to draw Christine's attention away from her own. She could only imagine what caused him such intense distress. Perhaps it was his relationship with his mother, or the absence of his father, or the childhood accident that had supposedly left him scarred, or a million other things that she could not even begin to guess at. She couldn't just sit here and let him suffer, though.

"How did you come to work at the opera?" she'd asked, hoping that that would be a more bearable topic.

He had looked at her for a moment as though processing what she had said, as though his mind was returning to the present from a great distance. And then the relief visibly came over him as he was able to put aside whatever thoughts had been tormenting him. "I…" he'd paused, collecting himself a bit more. "I play the violin and I used to play on street corners when I could find no other work, which was most of the time. No one wants to hire a man whose face they have not seen," he'd added, gesturing to the mask. "Eventually the right people heard me and began inviting me to play at their social gatherings. It was meant to be as an amusing oddity at the start, I suppose. But I gradually became more involved in the set, and eventually I secured a job at the Metropolitan Opera—still a relatively new company at the time. Since then I've done my best to make my passion and my skill known and to advise wherever possible, and when the fire last year led to changes in the leadership of the company, I had a small number of important people pushing for me to be made the musical director."

Christine had noticed him becoming a little more relaxed as he spoke, and from there they had kept their conversation to music and the company and the upcoming season—topics that were safe and easy enough for both of them. They had managed to pass the rest of the meal agreeably enough, but she had still seen the way Erik had straightened with surprise when she'd asked if they might continue to share supper whenever his work did not prevent him from doing so. If he'd had any misgivings about the request, he had agreed despite them, and they had met for those tentative, cautious meals every night since.

Still, the time that they spent together was only a small fraction of the day. The majority of her time was empty and solitary, and perhaps those hours of milling around on her own resulted in the new rigor with which she found herself approaching their lessons. She supposed it could have started before the wedding, but the longer she worked with Erik, the more energy she could feel herself bringing to the lessons. It was invigorating. She put every ounce of herself into her singing, and the harder she worked and the more her enthusiasm shone through, the more pleased Erik seemed to be, and then she was feeding off his excitement as well as her own. There was nothing she looked forward to more than the start of rehearsals, and she sometimes had to restrain herself from pestering Erik too much for more information about the new season. Soon her days would be full and active again, and she would be preparing to sing on stage just like she had always dreamed of doing. If she improved enough, maybe next season Erik would consider her for a small role, although there was always a twinge of doubt when she hoped for this. If her lessons with Erik had taught her anything about him, it was that he was extremely exacting and knew precisely what he wanted. He was never harsh when he corrected her, but he had to correct her often enough that she had a difficult time imaging that she would live up to his standards anytime soon.

Knowing this did not discourage her, though; if anything, it had the opposite effect. Now that she could see the path to her dream so clearly ahead of her, she would not be deterred from it.

So she was surprised when, after they had finished their lesson for the day, Erik lingered at the piano, opening his mouth as though there was something he wanted to say but he was still searching for the correct words. "I… I wanted to tell you that I am very pleased with the progress you're making," he said.

"Oh." It took a second for Christine to process the unexpected praise. "Thank you."

"I know that I can be… demanding," he continued. "But it is only because I feel strongly that you have incredible potential. And the improvement that you have made in such a short time confirms that. You are doing wonderfully."

For a moment she could not think of anything to say, so she said the first words that came to mind. She immediately wished she hadn't. "Why are you telling me this?"

To her relief, he did not seem offended by the implication that she was so shocked by his kind words; rather, his lips quirked in that tentative but genuine half-smile that she had come to recognize.

"I thought that you deserve to know. I can imagine that this adjustment has been difficult for you—I admit that it has been for me as well—and I wanted to… well, I suppose, encourage you." His words grew hastier and quieter as he spoke, as if he was not sure that he should be saying them. But Christine found that they had just their intended effect, relaxing something in her chest that she hadn't even realized had been tense.

"I appreciate that," she told him gently. "It has been… a rather big adjustment, these past few days."

"Are you comfortable?" he ventured. "Is there anything I can provide to make you feel more at home?"

"No, you have already given me plenty," she assured him. "I suppose it will just take some time to get used to all of this."

"Are you… happy?" he asked cautiously.

She almost started to say that yes, she was perfectly happy, that she had no reason not to be. But there was something in Erik's gaze, intense and direct but soft, that made her reconsider.

"I am adjusting," she said. "I find that I have difficulty knowing what to do during the day—it has been a very long time since I did not have work or someone to care for. But I do enjoy having your company."

"You do?" He seemed surprised by this.

"I do." She added quickly, "Although please do not feel like you must entertain me. I know that you are busy, and I'm sure that having me around disrupts you as it is."

A moment passed in silence while he looked at her as though he was not able to read her. She wondered if she had said something wrong, if perhaps despite her insistence that he did not need to entertain her, he now felt obligated to. She opened her mouth to assure him again that there really was no need for him to do more for her than he had already done, that it truly was just a matter of allowing herself more time to adjust to her new life, but he spoke up before she could.

"Perhaps you would like to take a walk with me after supper. I find the streets quite pleasant at night when they have quieted down."

"Yes," Christine agreed quickly, happy at both the fact that she had not upset him and the invitation to get out of the house for a while. "Yes, that sounds very nice."

"Very well," Erik said, his lips quirking again. She had never seen him smile fully, but she found his little half-smiles strangely endearing.

The span of time between their lesson and supper usually left Christine feeling listless. She would usually wander from room to room, picking up a book or the bit of embroidery that she had brought with her but almost immediately putting it down again. Tonight, though, she found that the promise of having something pleasant to do made the time pass a little more easily. She met Erik for supper as usual and was pleased to find that the meal felt a little more comfortable than the previous ones, a little less stilted and on-edge. She supposed that, despite her own desire to be polite and modest, she had always appreciated the moments when he had been frank with her, so perhaps he felt the same. Perhaps it was all the trying that made everything feel so difficult.

The thought had settled in her mind by the time she was fastening her bonnet in place while Erik waited at her side. When she was ready, he offered his arm—another surprise, as he had never been one to initiate any kind of physical contact with her, aside from the chaste kiss to her forehead on their wedding day. She gave him a smile and rested her hand on the crook of his arm, and they set out into the warm night.

"You were right," Christine told him as they walked down the block. "It's lovely when it's quiet like this." She wasn't sure she had ever seen the city so peaceful. The area around the boarding house had seemed to always be active and full of people. But now only a few people dotted the street here and there, only the occasional carriage rolling by in the glow of the streetlamps. The air was pleasantly warm with the beginning of summer, before the heat truly soaked into the city.

"I am glad you think so."

Christine hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Erik, may I ask you something?"

She could feel the muscles of his arm tense under her hand, and when he replied, his voice was tighter than before. "Of course."

"Are _you_ happy? With this situation, I mean… You don't regret it, do you?"

He considered for a few steps before answering. "As you said earlier today, it is an adjustment. I am used to being alone, and simply your presence in the house is… quite different for me. But I do not regret anything. While I may not have fully been prepared for the reality of this arrangement, I do still believe that it will be worth it for both of us."

"I agree," Christine said softly, before adding, "So you do not feel like I am intruding?"

"No, I do not. In fact, I… I enjoy your company too."

The words were spoken so faintly that she almost wondered if she had misheard him. He didn't _seem_ like he particularly enjoyed her company—he often seemed like he was trying to avoid her as much as possible—but perhaps he was only nervous or uncertain, just as she was. This was new territory for them both, after all.

"I always felt quite alone at the boarding house," she told him. "It was the first place I lived after my guardian died, the first time I had lived without a family member. The other women there were perfectly friendly most of the time, but I always felt lonely. Even Meg could not always lift me out of it. So I am… happy to have someone. Even if we still both need time to adjust."

Erik gave a slow nod, taking in what she had said. They passed underneath a streetlamp and the light made the mask glow while his eyes were concealed in shadows. She often wondered what was hidden beneath, what was so terrible that it must be concealed at all times. It may have been unusual for a woman to marry for the sake of her career, but surely it was far stranger for a woman to have never seen her husband's face.

"I have not had anyone since I was a young boy. I suppose I was lonely for a while, but eventually it just left me and I did not want anyone anymore. I must admit that I feared sharing my home with you would be irritating. But I am finding that perhaps there is a certain… comfort to it."

Christine smiled and tightened her grip on his arm just a little, although she did not look at him as they continued to walk. "I believe I have been afraid," she said softly. "Afraid of what this life, this choice, would mean. Afraid that I would find that I had not properly thought this through. But I do not want to live the remainder of my life tiptoeing around you, and I certainly do not want you to feel the need to tiptoe around me. I think we ought to be honest and candid with each other."

She could feel his eyes on her and finally looked up at him when she had finished speaking. The words were indelicate, going against every instinct that warned her to tread cautiously with Erik. Something about his guardedness seemed to raise a similar quality in her—or maybe it had been in her for a long time, and she was only now recognizing it. Either way, she was tired of such paralyzing caution. She held her breath as she waited for Erik's response.

"I think I would like that."

It felt as though the words had lifted a weight from her shoulders, something that had been there so long that she had grown used to the burden. She wasn't sure how long they continued to walk, just wandering aimlessly up and down the streets, sometimes speaking and sometimes only listening to the night around them. But by the time they returned to the house, Christine could not remember feeling more refreshed, as though some vital part of her had been replenished.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, folks! Sorry about not updating last week—I was in the midst of a family emergency and couldn't really wrap my mind around anything else. But things are okay and I'm happy to be back this week! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!**

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When they had married, Erik had pictured a best-case scenario and a worst-case scenario. The best case was that Christine's presence would have a minimal impact on his life and that he would more or less continue just as he had been; there would simply be another person in his house. The worst case was that every aspect of his life would be substantially and painfully changed. In truth, though, the past two weeks had been somewhere in the middle.

It surprised him how quickly he had started to grow accustomed to seeing her so frequently and casually —passing her in the hall, hearing her humming quietly to herself as she walked by his study, even the walks that had become a habit when the weather was nice. The first few days had been quite jarring, but he imagined that anyone would have a difficult time being uncomfortable for too long around Christine. She always had a genuine smile for him and, just as he had felt since their first lesson, there was a kind of gentleness about her that seemed to set him at ease without him even realizing it. She not only intuited his discomfort, but she actually cared enough to try to ease it somewhat. Despite his initial determination to be as distanced from her as he could manage given their situation, he was finding himself drawn to her more and more.

He hadn't lied that night when he'd said he enjoyed her company, not exactly. It was more that he was only beginning to enjoy her company, only beginning to learn _how_ to enjoy her company. He'd never liked being around people. Even with Armand, whom he had long considered the most tolerable person in his life, Erik always looked forward to being left alone again. Now that solitude was beginning to feel ever so slightly empty, lacking the warmth that Christine provided. He had anticipated wanting to avoid her as much as possible, but now he was starting to find that he looked forward to the moments of the day that they spent together—not just their lessons, but even the moments when they lingered over supper talking, or when they meandered silently through the dark neighborhood, her hand a gentle pressure on his arm.

And now she was also becoming someone with whom he could be candid—a precious kind of relationship if there ever was one. She did not seem to expect him to play the silly games of distant civility that he found so common in the other people with whom he interacted. Rather, she seemed to actually prefer it when he spoke plainly, and she was happy enough to return the favor. Their conversations had started growing less measured and halting and uncertain. They could speak about their thoughts directly, and while there was still some guardedness on Erik's part—there would always be, as he had found it a necessary trait to move through the world—he always found that her preference for candor made everything a little easier. It was simply one more thing that made their interactions the most pleasant part of the day.

Of course, perhaps it was just that her comforting presence and remarkable talent were a welcome reprieve from opera preparations, which took up most of his days. There were always more people to meet or correspond with, singers to hear, and papers to review, and he was finding his progress much impeded by the migration of so many others out of the city for the summer. Even Armand was in Newport with his family, although Erik still received frequent notes from him and knew he planned to return to the city from time to time to assist. "Assist" was Armand's word, but Erik suspected that his intent was less to actually assist him and more to check up on him. As much as he appreciated Armand's efforts at times, he still couldn't help but bristle at his watchfulness. Even in their idyllic country homes meant for enjoying the long, leisurely summer days in peace, the men whom Erik was meant to please would not allow him to go unmonitored but also would not bother to work with him themselves.

Still, he could not say that he truly didn't enjoy the work. Getting to plan the season, as restricted as he was, was thrilling. He found that there was nearly nothing as gratifying as considering what should be performed, selecting the right mix of oft-performed and lesser-known operas, knowing which ones would complement each other and deciding when something different should be thrown into the mix. He had come to suppose that if anyone could plan a compelling and artistic season under such less-than-favorable circumstances, it was him. And while he had to work within certain parameters now, he reassured himself with thoughts of the control he'd be granted when his programming proved to be successful. If he had anything to say about it, there would come a day when he would have free reign, when he would be respected and able to exert his influence over the musical world as he saw fit. That kind of legacy had long seemed to him the only thing in this miserable life that was truly worth pursuing.

Oddly, though, he was beginning to be prickled by the inclination to put these grand ambitions aside in favor of something that was surely a riskier and more foolish pursuit, and he was reminded of that something every day when she appeared in the doorway of his study promptly at their scheduled time. Christine was progressing remarkably well, much better than he had anticipated given her lack of formal education. In a way, they were actually quite likeminded. She was, at any rate, a far cry from the men he worked with who possessed little in the way of integrity or originality. She was wholly passionate and intelligent and eager to learn. And with every improvement she made, her voice captivated him more, lingering on the edges of his mind during every waking hour and often seeping into his dreams.

He wasn't sure when exactly the idea of casting Christine in a lead role had first occurred to him. He hadn't exactly given it consideration when he had unceremoniously announced his intent to Armand, but even then, the idea had felt fully formed. But somehow his plan to give her a more minor role had evolved without his really knowing it, and suddenly he was picturing her as Marguerite. They were practicing _Faust_ when he first caught himself imaging her on stage, imagining the triumph she would unquestionably be. It was as if everything simply clicked into place, and then there did not seem to be any other option. His mind was made up before he could fully consider it.

For a while, then, he tried to talk himself out of it. He knew perfectly well that, just as Armand had cautioned him, no one would be particularly happy about his choice to cast a completely unknown singer as the lead in one of the company's most popular operas, much less in the performance that was meant to mark the triumphant opening night of the renovated opera house. If he wanted Christine to be Marguerite, he would have to fight for her tooth and nail. And shouldn't he be trying to pick fewer fights? He was on thin enough ice as it was and was beginning to realize that he may be heeding Armand's suggestion that he proceed with caution slightly too late. It was perfectly clear to him that he was wearing out his welcome with some of the board members, if they had welcomed him at all in the first place, and that their patience was waning when it came to his opinions. If he pushed for Christine, it would likely mean giving up control over other aspects of the season, stepping back from the insistence and involvement that he had been fighting so hard for. Or, far worse, this could even be one push too far and could end up costing him his career. Surely, a simple matter of casting was not worth that, even if it concerned an artist as immensely promising as Christine. The others wanted a big name to make that first performance as grand and extravagant as possible, and he couldn't say that he blamed them. He hadn't been against the idea before he'd met Christine, and he could hardly argue that there was no one else who could do the role justice. It would be foolish to fight for this, wouldn't it?

He would very nearly convince himself of this, and then Christine would step into his study for the day's lesson, greeting him with a smile that somehow seemed to grow a little sunnier each day despite the fact that she now spent most days with only him for company, and any measure of resolve he had reached would vanish. Her clear, exquisite voice, her unassuming air, her pretty features—she was meant for this role. She was meant to be on stage, and he found that he wanted to do everything in his power to ensure that she received the acclaim that she was due. Once she performed and everyone saw her brilliance, she would become an instant star. And of course he would be lauded for discovering her, for insisting that she be given the opportunity to shine. It would be risky, but it would pay off for both of them.

At least, that was how he planned to justify the decision to Armand.

When the morning of Armand's visit came, Erik found himself fighting the urge to stand up from his desk and pace the room. But no, he told himself, it wouldn't do at all for Armand to find him in such an agitated state, to understand how irrationally strongly he felt about this decision. He must appear calm and levelheaded, must present this as not what he most wanted but what was objectively the best decision. And it _was_ the best decision; he felt it in his bones. But Armand was an astute man, and if he felt that Erik was biased in casting Christine or that the decision might be influenced too much by emotion, he would not be willing to hear Erik out.

Not that the decision _was_ influenced by emotion. It just couldn't appear to be.

"Erik," Armand greeted as he entered and approached the desk. Erik stood to shake his hand.

"Armand. Is Newport as restful as it's meant to be?"

"I would imagine it is if you're not overseeing construction efforts and attempting to coordinate with a staff that has lapsed into complete disorder in the year since we last employed them," he said. "As it is, I have not found that the change in location has done much to relieve me of my work. But never mind that—tell me how married life is treating you. I was surprised, to say the least, to hear of your new bride."

"It was quite sudden," Erik said, hoping that the words implied a sudden romance and not a sudden, panicked attempt to bolster his career. Although he doubted Armand would buy it. "It has certainly been a change. But I have to admit that it's not an unpleasant one."

"I would very much like to meet Mrs. Mason if she is at home."

"She has gone to visit a friend this morning, but I will introduce you if she returns in time."

"Well then, as I know you not to be one for discussing personal matters," Armand said, taking a seat, "perhaps we should turn to the opera."

"Of course. I have finalized the season schedule and most of my preferred casting, which I believe you and the rest of the board will find acceptable. You may notice, in fact, that I have been particularly conceding to the board's wishes."

Armand thumbed through the papers that Erik had handed him, looking pleasantly surprised. "Yes, I believe the board will take umbrage with only a few points, which is far better than what I was anticipating receiving from you."

"I have also been working extensively with the chorus master and the orchestral manager, and I feel confident that we will have a strong foundation for the season. And, of course, I have been making frequent trips to the opera house and find that the reconstruction is going reasonably well." Erik swallowed. "There is, however, one casting matter that I should like to discuss specifically."

Armand paused in his examination of Erik's plans, looking across at Erik with an I-knew-this-was-too-good-to-be-true look. "Oh?"

"I have chosen to cast Christine Daae as Marguerite, including in the opening night performance."

"Christine Daae." Armand repeated the name thoughtfully as if trying to place it. "And that would be…?"

"She is the student I have been tutoring since April," Erik said, before adding hesitantly, "and my wife."

Armand's brows shot up at this. "I see. The unknown singer with no experience. And now your wife, as well. Just how do you plan to defend this choice to the board?"

"Simply," Erik replied, careful to ensure his voice held more certainty than he felt. "She is the best choice for the role. She is unknown only because, before now, she lacked training and opportunity. Once the others hear her, they will not doubt it."

"They _will_ want to hear her," Armand said. "And they will want to hear _you _explain all of this. I cannot take this to them myself, Erik."

"Of course." Erik had expected him to say as much. And while going to the board himself was not exactly something he looked forward to, he had resigned himself to it.

"And need I remind you," Armand continued, "that I do not anticipate that anyone will be particularly receptive to this idea."

"I understand that."

With a heavy sigh, Armand sat forward, his voice growing low and somber. "You will be risking your position for this, Erik. Even if you are able to convince them to give this a chance, they will be watching you far more carefully than they are now, just waiting for a misstep. At the very first signs of failure, they will dismiss you. If she does not perform well, if there is not mad clambering to see her, if the crowds do not turn out or a performance is not well reviewed, it will be the end of your career. Have you really considered that?"

Of course he had considered all of this, and he had known that Armand would caution him anyway. But rather than eliciting a stab of fear or uncertainty, the words settled something in him, strengthening his resolve. He had no doubt that the board would do exactly as Armand said, and yet he did not waver in his belief that Christine should have this role. If all of this did go poorly and he lost everything he had worked so hard for, he supposed that at least he could say he went down in defense of his pure artistic vision.

"I have considered all of that, and it has not changed my mind," he said evenly. "She is the best choice, and while others may not see it now, they will."

Armand looked at him for a long moment before seeming to reach some level of acceptance. "Very well. I can see that your mind is made up. But, as I said, you will have to be the one to defend this. I think the best thing for you to do would be to come to Newport and meet with the others in person."

Erik gave a nod. The prospect of the trip was not pleasant, but he had expected it as well. "Then I will."

Heaving another sigh, Armand shook his head. "You are a fool, Erik."

"I know," Erik said.

The rest of the meeting was briefer than it ought to have been, Armand still processing the shock of Erik's commitment to such a risky idea. He was just preparing to leave when they heard Christine return, and Erik called out to her when she passed by his study.

"Christine, I'd like you to meet my colleague, Armand Martin," he said, standing and coming around the desk as she entered the room.

Armand rose as well. "Mrs. Mason. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You as well," Christine said, glancing between the two of them with her usual warm smile. Erik thought for a second that perhaps he should have introduced them before telling Armand about his decision to cast her; her charm could only work in her favor.

"I regret that I do not have more time to become acquainted with you on this visit," Armand was saying. "But I do hope to see you again soon. And I hope that both you and Erik are finding marriage agreeable."

"I believe we are," she replied, and Erik believed that she genuinely meant it. The thought sent an odd warmth spreading through his chest.

Armand made his excuses, called away by the myriad of other meetings he needed to take while he was in the city, and soon Erik found himself alone with Christine again. She asked him how his meeting had gone, and he replied vaguely that it had gone as well as he expected it to. He was distracted, mulling over the idea of telling her what he had just told Armand. He'd made no mention of his intention to cast her, not even when he assumed it would only be in a minor role. And despite her dedication to their lessons and her curiosity about the new season, and despite how ambitious he knew she was, she had never asked him if she might be placed anywhere beyond the chorus. He had wavered between telling her of his plans now and waiting until it was all finalized. But if he was to go and convince the board in person, he might need to prepare her to meet with them as well.

"If you have a moment," he found himself saying before he was certain he'd made up his mind. "I have something I would like to talk to you about."

"Of course," she said, a small crease forming on her brow as she waited for what he had to say.

"I will be going to Newport shortly to present my plans for the company this season. I have finalized my casting for _Faust_, but given the significance of the season, Armand and I thought it wise that I meet with the board in person to discuss my choices. You are welcome to join me in Newport, of course, if you would like a change of scenery."

Her face lit up with interest at this, and not for the first time he felt a stab of guilt at how isolated she had been for the last couple of weeks. With the exception of today, when she had gone back to the boarding house to visit her friend, she only had him for company. And while she told him that she did not mind, he doubted she really meant it.

"That sounds lovely," she said. "I would be happy to join you. It's been so long since I have been out of the city."

"Do let me know if you need anything as you prepare, then. I imagine we'll leave next week."

"I will, thank you." She hesitated, curiosity plainly written on her face, and Erik's heart sped a bit in anticipation of answering the question he knew she was about to ask. "If you don't mind me asking, who have you cast? It cannot have been an easy choice with all the anticipation around the season."

"It was actually quite an easy choice." He met her eyes, a smile tugging faintly at his lips. "I would like you to be Marguerite."

Christine was still for a moment as his words sunk in. "Erik, you're not serious," she said quietly.

"I am perfectly serious. You are the clear choice for the part." Erik's eyes followed her as she turned and began to pace, biting her lip.

"But I have never even performed before, at least not on this scale. I was only meant to be in the chorus."

"That was before we began our lessons," he replied calmly.

"And how will it look for you to cast your wife over dozens of highly skilled, internationally acclaimed artists?"

"As soon as anyone hears you sing, there will be no talk of any undue bias; it will be perfectly clear that you deserve this role."

She stopped pacing, then, and looked back at him. He crossed the room to stand beside her, meeting her gaze steadily. At first it had made him feel too exposed to hold her gaze, but he was beginning to find it pleasant in a way, always finding warmth and sincerity in her dark eyes.

"Do you really think I can do it?" she murmured. "Do you really think I'll be ready?"

"I do. I would not cast you if I did not have complete faith in your abilities. You are meant for this, Christine."

She ducked her head, and for a moment Erik feared she might decline the role. She'd never struck him as one to allow fear to hold her back, but perhaps this was just too much.

"Christine?" he said gently.

When she looked up at him again, he was relieved to see the hopeful smile spreading across her face. "You mean that?"

He gave a nod. "I do."

Then, without warning, she was throwing her arms around his neck, crushing herself to him. "Thank you, Erik," she breathed. "Thank you so much."

His arms encircled her waist cautiously, and for a moment his voice was caught in his throat, overwhelmed by the warmth of her small body and the faint floral scent of her perfume and the way his fingers brushed the ridges of her corset just faintly detectable under her dress. When he could speak again, his voice came out weaker than he'd expected.

"There's no need to thank me. I am not doing this as a favor to you. I have no doubt that you are simply the best choice for the role."

Christine pulled away slightly, beaming and bringing her hands up to cover her flushed cheeks. "I promise to do my best not to prove you wrong, then," she laughed. "I cannot believe this."

"You deserve it. And you will be absolutely brilliant."

Her expression softened at his words, and for half a second all he could think about was pulling her close again.

"I suppose I should let you return to your work," she said softly, drawing him from his thoughts. "But that you for telling me. Thank you for everything."

He wanted to deny again that she needed to thank him, but something in the earnestness of her expression stopped him. "Of course," he said instead.

With one more warm smile, Christine turned and practically skipped from the room, her initial apprehension seeming to have fully given way to eagerness. Erik remained where he stood and watched her go, finding that he felt unexpectedly lightheaded and unable to quite remember why he had ever hesitated to give her the role. Surely, he'd had no reason to hesitate; Christine was perfect.


	7. Chapter 7

The Newport train station felt absolutely desolate after the bustle of Grand Central. Christine supposed it was to be expected—the quiet seaside town was where New York's elite came to escape the frenzy of the city, where the summer heat was tempered by a cool, salty breeze, seemed perfectly conducive to slow, leisurely days. The lack of crowds at least seemed to put Erik a little more at ease. They had drawn more than a few glances on their journey, and even if that had not been the case, she could imagine that simply having no escape from the crush of people must make him nervous. She had kept her arm looped with his for the whole trip, her hand gently pressing on his forearm in the hope that she might somehow be able to give him some reassurance. If she caught anyone staring, she would look steadily back at them until they dropped their gaze. Occasionally Erik would give her a wordless glance, the corner of his mouth twisting into something between a smile and a grimace, and she could never tell if it was meant to be encouraging or apologetic.

It had been easy enough to discern over the month of their marriage that Erik valued his seclusion, and likely for good reason. He never spoke about why he wore the mask, but she knew perfectly well how people who were different could be looked down upon. Whether the scars from an old injury or one of the many other speculations she'd heard people make since she had first heard about him, whatever the mask covered obviously drew unwanted attention at the very least. She couldn't blame him for how he tensed up as soon as they had left the house that morning.

Of course, now that they were here, there was an entirely different kind of tension. Erik had told her plenty about his dealings with the board, and although he had spoken less about it since telling her that he planned to cast her, she knew enough to understand how important this meeting was. She knew what was on the line for each of them, but especially for him, and guilt sat in her stomach like a rock at the thought of what he was risking to promote her.

At least once they arrived in Newport there was plenty to distract her from these thoughts. As their hosts had promised, there was a carriage waiting for them outside of the station. The Harrisons were better acquainted with Armand than with Erik, but they were hosting a party already and had expressed that they would be more than happy to receive them. Erik had been hesitant. But Armand and his wife had been called out of town on family matters, and the Harrisons were generally known to be some of the more welcoming people of their set, so it seemed that there was no better alternative. While Christine did her best to reassure Erik about the stay, she couldn't deny that she was nervous about it herself. It was intimidating enough to know that she would be spending the next few days among such elite people who could easily look down on her for her humble background and scrutinize her every move; staying with a party would allow for even less reprieve from all of this.

And if she was nervous about the scrutiny, she could only imagine what Erik was feeling. She glanced at him as he helped her into the carriage and climbed in after her. His mouth, pressed in a firm line, softened a little when he met her eyes.

"Everything will go well," she told him, half-hoping that by speaking the words she would convince not only Erik but also herself.

He smiled slightly and gave a nod. "If I have your confidence, then I am sure that is true."

After a short while, their destination loomed ahead of them, and Christine leaned toward the carriage window for a better view of the picturesque Italian-style villa. The estate was larger than she had imagined, the manicured grounds stretching far around the sprawling white house. A few people could be seen strolling around one side of the house toward the shore, the ladies' light cotton skirts billowing around them in the breeze. It was a far cry from the little seaside cottage that she and Mama had occupied. Back then she could not have imagined herself as a guest in a place like this; she could hardly imagine it now.

A middle-aged woman with a kind face—their hostess, Christine assumed—stood at the front of the house to meet them. Everything about Lydia Harrison was immaculately put together, from her perfectly fitted dress to her neatly coiffured hair, and Christine nervously adjusted her own bodice, suddenly certain that everyone here would know on sight that she was fresh from a boarding house.

Erik seemed to read her thoughts. "Don't be nervous," he told her gently. "Anyone with any sense at all is bound to love you."

She smiled at this, but before she could reply, the carriage lurched to a halt.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I'm so glad you made it." Mrs. Harrison stepped forward to greet them as they climbed out of the carriage. "I hope your journey was tolerable."

"Very much so," Erik replied, his words polite but possessing the same stiffness they had when Christine had first met him. "Thank you for your generous hospitality, Mrs. Harrison."

She waved the thanks away. "We have been looking forward to knowing you both better. And please do call me Lydia."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Christine said, finally finding her voice, and Lydia turned to her with a warm, appraising look.

"You as well. The other ladies and I have all been looking forward to your company."

"That is very kind of you." Christine noticed Lydia's eyes occasionally flicking over to Erik's face, but her expression at least remained placid and discreet. Although she was sure Erik noticed her glances anyway.

Lydia turned to lead them inside, and Christine took Erik's arm without thinking, finding that the contact steadied her nerves. For a brief moment he reached over and covered her hand with his, but in a flash he'd pulled it away again, as if catching himself doing something he shouldn't.

They followed Lydia through the grand house and out onto a wide veranda overlooking the water where a handful of people were gathered. The hum of conversations hushed some as they stepped outside, curious gazes settling on them. Christine kept glancing back up to Erik as they were taken around and introduced to the other members of the party, but his stance was impassive and unreadable; he wore blank civility like a suit of armor. Most of the guests met them with a similar polite indifference, making it clear to Christine that they were at best a curiosity, and not an entirely welcome one. There was one young woman who she guessed to be around her age who greeted them with a genuine smile, but her husband took a step forward and spoke before she could.

"So you're the one I've heard about from those poor fools who decided to resurrect the Metropolitan Opera." He spoke jovially, but there was something steely in his smile. Christine noticed that he did not extend his hand to Erik. "George Wright—one of the ones with enough sense to keep my money far away from that mess. This is my wife, Dora."

Dora's gaze dropped to her hands, clasped demurely in front of her, as her husband put a hand on her shoulder. Christine shifted uncomfortably, wishing more than ever to be away from here, vaguely aware of Erik making some polite reply and Lydia laughing as if the whole interaction was the most pleasant joke. It felt hollow and artificial. And then they were being ushered away for more introductions. The skin prickling on the back of her neck alerted her to George's gaze following them, but she couldn't make herself turn around to see whether he really was still watching.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before the afternoon lounging on the veranda began to wane and the others began to disperse to rest and dress for dinner. Lydia, who had left them after all the introductions had been made, reappeared and offered to show them to their room, and Christine started a little at the words. Of course she and Erik would be expected to share a room, but somehow this hadn't occurred to her until now. Judging by the way Erik tensed beside her, it hadn't occurred to him either. She followed Lydia back through the house, feeling a bit hazy; between the forced interactions with these people and now the reminder of the marriage she had to act, she felt very far from herself, like she was only watching the actions of someone distantly familiar.

They stopped at a room at one end of a spacious hall, and mercifully Lydia did not seem to notice how they both hesitated in the doorway.

"All of your luggage should have been brought up," she said. "Do let me know if you need anything."

Christine faintly heard herself assure their hostess that they would be perfectly comfortable. And then Lydia was hurrying back down the hall, leaving them alone, and for the first time that afternoon Christine felt like she could take a breath.

The relief that she felt at being left alone was short-lived, though, as they stood in the doorway surveying the room, neither one of them daring to move forward. She supposed that she had been so concerned about Erik's meeting with the board and the time she would be spending with strangers that it hadn't even occurred to her to think about their accommodations. As far as anyone here was concerned, she and Erik were an ordinary married couple, and that had been their intention. Of course that meant that they'd be expected to share a room… to share a bed.

"Forgive me," Erik said quietly. "I did not think about—"

Christine shook her head, letting out a small laugh. "Nor did I."

"Perhaps I can spend tonight in the library."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "No, you would not be comfortable, and you need to rest tonight if you're to present your plans for the season tomorrow. Besides, how would it look if someone saw you?"

"Then what do you propose?"

"We shall both sleep here." She spoke with more confidence than she felt, but this was what needed to be done, and she doubted that Erik would acknowledge that fact if she didn't; someone needed to push past the discomfort to do what made the most sense.

Erik shifted, his eyes darting to her uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

"I am," she replied, stepping into the room as if to prove her statement.

She crossed the room to where their luggage sat and began to remove what she needed, hoping that she appeared calmer than she felt. After another moment she heard Erik step into the room and softly shut the door, and she wondered how a single action could simultaneously fill her with relief and nerves. This should be no different from them sharing Erik's home, she told herself, although the argument sounded flimsy even in her own head. She turned to say something to him but stopped when she found him standing in the middle of the room looking utterly lost, and she couldn't help the giggle that rose in her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth as her shoulders shook, and then Erik seemed to relax a little, almost smiling himself.

"I suppose this means that our marriage appears real enough," she said, surprised when he chuckled in response. The sound was warm and melodious, and she wondered how she had never heard him laugh before.

"I am sorry for not thinking this through," he said despite the small, amused smile that lingered on his lips.

She shook her head. "You had plenty of more important things to worry about."

Wavering for a second, she examined the dress that she held in her hands and then glanced to the changing screen. She didn't relish the idea of changing with a man in the room, but something made her hesitate to ask Erik to leave. She had no desire to make a fuss, and she knew that if she was happy to have a break from being under the scrutiny of the other guests, Erik must be doubly so. Besides, if they were to reach any level of real comfort with this arrangement over the next few days, she knew she would need to be the one behaving as if this really was nothing out of the ordinary. If she appeared to be at ease about it, Erik would be put at ease too. So without comment, she ducked behind the screen and began to undo the buttons on the bodice of her traveling suit. A few seconds passed and there was no sound from the other side of the screen, and she forced herself to speak again.

"Will any of the board members be here tonight?"

"No, not that they informed me. I would imagine it will only be the Harrisons' guests tonight." His voice uncertain and distant, as if he was standing turned away from her despite the fact that she was completely hidden by the screen.

"At least you do not have to worry about facing them until tomorrow," she offered. There was a swish of silk as she pulled on the new dress—a pale blue ensemble with short, full sleeves and elaborate beading embellishing the bodice. She had never worn the dress before as it had seemed too ornate, but she was thankful that she had chosen to bring it now. She was also thankful that she was accustomed to fastening her own dresses and, although she struggled with this one a little, did not require the help of her husband.

When she stepped out from behind the screen a moment later, Erik was, indeed, standing with his back to her. He only chanced turning when he heard her approaching, his mouth twitching in a way she couldn't quite read when he looked at her.

"It suits you," he said softly, and she gave him a nervous smile, running her hands over the skirt.

"Well, the dress is down to your fine taste, as you are the one who ordered it. But I… you do not think that I look like I do not belong in something so fine?"

Now he did smile a little. "Not at all."

Feeling a little more at ease now—perhaps her intention to make herself appear comfortable for Erik's sake was actually helping her as well—she sat down at the dressing table to attend to the matter of her hair, and she noticed Erik also beginning to gather his clothes before disappearing behind the screen. Just the sound of fabric rustling as he dressed was enough to make her cheeks heat, and she kept herself resolutely focused on arranging her hair. It was no different than sharing a home, she told herself again, hoping that she might believe it more this time.

Erik emerged in a sleek black suit and white waistcoat, and brushing off her momentary discomfort (was it discomfort, exactly?) Christine rose and crossed the room to him, giving him a playful smile as she took his arm.

"I daresay we make quite a fashionable couple," she said lightly, and again he chuckled.

"Only half of this couple could ever be called fashionable."

"That's not true. Think of just a matter of months from now when the opera house opens. You will be credited as the brilliant mind behind a dazzling and successful opening night and the highly anticipated season to follow. I imagine you will be quite fashionable then."

"If there is to be any hope of that, it will be because of the charming and talented woman who makes me seem even a little bearable." The fondness in his voice made the heat return to her cheeks, more pleasantly this time, and she glanced away. Instead of answering she walked to one of tall windows on the opposite wall, keeping her arm linked with his to urge him over with her. For a minute they stood there and looked out over the vast grounds of the estate, all lush green grass and thick hedges and towering trees.

"It is beautiful here," Christine said eventually. "I suppose it's easy to forget how much space there is in the world when your existence is contained in the city."

"It is lovely," Erik agreed. "The city has always held great appeal for me, but this is… peaceful."

"Perhaps one day we can retire to the country," Christine said, and he looked at her with a small, soft smile.

"That would be pleasant."

* * *

Dinner was not as thoroughly exhausting as Christine had feared it would be. She was seated between two gentlemen who she had only briefly spoken to before and who barely acknowledged her presence now, but across from her was Dora Wright, and Christine found it easy enough to keep up friendly conversation with her. Dora seemed utterly fascinated by her presence, though not in the slightly condescending way that some of the others in the group appeared to be.

"So you are a singer?" she asked, and Christine smiled self-consciously as she sipped her wine.

"I intend to be, at least," she said. "The fire happened before I ever had the chance to perform."

"Oh, how awful. So you've just been waiting all this time?"

"Waiting and hoping."

"And you met your husband during that time?"

Christine nodded.

"How romantic," Dora gushed before seeming to catch herself. "Forgive me if I am too forward. I'm afraid I have a… a certain love for the dramatic."

"I do as well," Christine assured her. "I suppose that's what draws me to performing—otherwise I would be happy with the music alone."

"It must all be wonderfully exciting—the lights and the costumes and the applause. You must be eager for the season to begin."

"I am very eager."

"I think I should have liked to be an actress in another life," Dora sighed, tucking a wisp of blonde hair that had freed itself behind her ear. "Of course, after hearing what you've gone through, I don't know if I would have the fortitude to bear it."

Christine laughed a little at this and Dora's smile widened. "I have to cling to the hope that it will not always be so trying."

"I'm certain it won't be. Anyway, perhaps if you're the one singing, I will finally be able to convince George to stay seated and listen to the music for longer than a minute. He only accompanies me to the opera when he has business to discuss with someone. I, on the other hand, become so distracted by the performance that I forget to say hello to a single person."

"I would be honored to know that you were listening. Do you attend the opera often?" Christine asked, careful to match the lightness of Dora's tone and pretend not to notice the veiled complaint about her husband. She had already seen enough to decide that she did not care for George Wright, and she could not begrudge Dora the slight bit of criticism, even if she did not know either of them well. And anyway, Dora seemed like the kind of person who was quickly familiar with everyone she met, and if it meant that she had a friend among the Harrisons' guests, Christine could not complain.

As the dinner stretched on, Christine caught herself sneaking glances down the table to where Erik was seated. He did not seem overly uncomfortable, at least, but he sat rigidly, and she could tell that his replies, when anyone bothered to address him, were brief. She wished that he would look her way so she could catch is gaze, give him some kind of reassurance. Although she had definitely noticed how much easier things between them had started to feel, she wasn't sure that she had noticed until now just how much things had changed, how comfortable they had become with each other. The man she saw now was much like the man who had sat across from her at the dinner table on their wedding night. She could not remember reading his stiffness as nervousness then, but she recognized it easily enough now. But the dinner would be over soon, she told herself, and relief would come. For both of them.

It was quite late by the time everyone retired, and Christine was very much looking forward to climbing into bed. Except there would be someone beside her tonight, she remembered suddenly, glancing up at Erik as they walked to their room. The thought made something in her flutter. It was not a repulsive thought—the idea of being so close to him while they slept—but the arrangement, as innocent as it was, certainly felt… intimate. When she was dressing for bed, she slipped her dressing gown on over her nightgown, the thin cotton fabric of the latter feeling a little too flimsy on its own.

Still, she was sure to portray more confidence than she possessed as she crossed the room and climbed into bed. They both needed rest, and this was the sensible solution; if she had to be the one to swallow her embarrassment, then that's just what she would do.

Erik was clearly uncertain about the situation. Even after he had prepared for bed, he continued to wander the room aimlessly, sometimes glancing in her direction but never directly at her. When several minutes had passed and he still had made no move to join her, she spoke softly.

"Erik? Aren't you tired?"

He turned, then, and hesitated another moment as he looked at her. Not for the first time, she wished she could see the expression that the mask concealed. After a moment he approached, every movement radiating caution, and he slowly eased himself onto the other side of the bed. Christine could feel the slight weight of him beside her, despite the fact that he was as far away from her as he could be, and it made her heart speed a little. He reached over to extinguish the bedside lamp without a word, and in the darkness she could feel him ease himself down gently and then come to lie perfectly still. Unsure whether any further comment from her would only make him more uncomfortable, she closed her eyes and let her body grow heavy, feeling every minute of the day.

She must have fallen asleep quickly, but she had no idea how much time had passed when she vaguely became aware of Erik's voice. Pressing her face into the pillow as she slowly woke, she could feel the cool tracks of tears on her cheeks, a whimper threatening to rise in her throat. Erik spoke again, and this time she could make out his words.

"Go back to sleep. Everything's okay." His voice was gentler than she had ever heard it, like a caress.

"Erik?" she murmured, wiping her face. Her mind wouldn't fully clear and she couldn't quite remember where she was.

"I didn't mean to wake you," came his soft reply. "You were crying in your sleep."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I have dreams sometimes."

"Are you all right now?"

She nodded weakly. "I'll be fine. It just takes a moment to pass." Finally she turned to look at him, able to make out his form beside her. The moonlight filtering in through the windows glinted off the edge of the mask as he faced her. She could not tell if his eyes were open, though, and for a moment she thought he had gone back to sleep. But then he spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant.

"Do you… often have bad dreams?"

"Not as often anymore. They started after my father died. Then within a few years I also lost the couple who had taken me in. For a while after that the dreams were bad, but they have gotten better."

"I'm sorry." There was another pause, and she heard him draw in a slow, heavy breath. "I lost my mother when I was a young boy. There was no one who would take me in and I was sent to live in a boys' home."

Christine rolled onto her side to face him fully. He never volunteered information about his childhood, and perhaps this was why—she knew of the dreadful things that could happen in places like that and had always been thankful that her situation had been different. "Was it bad?" she asked quietly.

He gave a slight nod, swallowing hard. "It's in the past, though. It does not matter now and I do my best not to think of it."

"It can still hurt."

His voice was a little hoarse when it came though the darkness again, and the sound of it made her chest tighten. "You ought to get some rest."

It was true, but these dreams never allowed her to return to sleep quickly. It felt like they opened something inside of her where she had learned to store her grief, and now that grief flooded through her so intensely that she was uncertain she'd be able to pack it away again. She was always glad, at least, that she never remembered the dreams themselves when she woke. The deep sadness they left her with was more than enough.

A few minutes passed, and something about the man beside her, the man who was also sad and broken, who was so near her but so separated from her, brought her to the verge of tears again. Something about the inches that separated them made the expanse between her and another human feel wider than it had when she would wake up alone in her room at the boarding house, and she suddenly couldn't bear it.

"Erik?" Her voice was hardly even a whisper.

"Yes?" His was clearer, assuring her that he had not yet been asleep.

"Would you hold my hand?"

There was a moment of stillness, and then she felt him shift, turning onto his side so that they faced each other. He said nothing, but after an uncertain second he slid his hand across the covers, and she reached for it gratefully. She started a little when their fingers brushed, as if she had not actually been expecting the contact, but she took his hand and held it tightly, glad that his grip was just as strong.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Christine woke that morning, Erik was already up and was nearly finished dressing. She could faintly hear him moving about the room even before she was fully awake, and for a minute she could not quite remember who would be in the room with her. But then everything came back to her, and she stretched and forced her eyes open. He was standing before the mirror adjusting his cravat, apparently lost in thought as he did not appear to notice that she was awake until she propped herself up.

"Morning," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, and he nodded to her.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you." She remembered the feeling of his hand enclosing hers and how, even once she was mostly asleep, she'd felt that it was very important that she hold onto him. "And you?"

"Fine, thank you." He was still fiddling with the cravat, and she started to recognize the anxiety in his movements.

"Erik," she said softly. He turned to look at her, though his hands did not still. "Perhaps… perhaps you should not meet with the board today."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you do not need to argue for me. Cast someone else to please them. It is not worth the risk to your career." It was a relief to speak the words as these thoughts had been weighing on her for days. She knew what insisting that she was cast could end up costing Erik. At best, it would lead to closer scrutiny, and that was dangerous enough with his position already as precarious as she had gathered it was. She would sing in the chorus this season, just as she had hoped for, and perhaps next season, when Erik was on more stable ground, she could begin taking on small roles.

"Out of the question." The reply erased her short-lived relief.

"Erik, think about it," she pressed. "There are plenty of singers out there who can play Marguerite beautifully and who would please the board. Their concerns about me are not unfounded. I honestly do not know if I could handle the role."

"Of course you can, and you will be brilliant."

"Erik, please." The words were finally enough to still his distracted fiddling. "I know that you are optimistic about my ability, but just think of what this could cost you. How could anyone think that I am worth such a risk? How could you expect me to perform knowing that I could cost you your career?"

Erik stood and looked at her for a long moment, his stance softening. When he finally spoke, his words were gentle. "I believe that we are alike—that our music comes from the same place. It's at the very core of our beings. I have never been happy with the idea of bowing to others, of playing along with these petty politics at the cost of artistic integrity, but I have done so because I told myself that a long career would be worth it. But to not do my best to honor the very source of my music… it seems like a betrayal of everything I am."

Christine sat silently as she took in his words, the gravity with which he clearly felt this. She understood what he meant when he said that their music came from the same place. It had always felt so deeply a part of her that it was indistinguishable from the very essence of her being, and she had recognized the same in Erik. Just as she had felt she had no choice but to approach him on the street that day even though he might have dismissed her before her career began, he felt that he had no choice but to follow a similar impulse. It didn't exactly put her at ease, though, to know that her success would not only mean something _for_ him, but _to_ him. Seeming to read her thoughts, he went on.

"I am certain you can tell that I do not place my faith in others lightly. I would never flatter you or convince you that you are better than you are. When I tell you that you are wonderful, that you will be brilliant as Marguerite, it is because I believe it. You have a very bright career ahead of you, Christine, and I consider myself lucky to be working with you now. You will be perfect in this role and you deserve all of the success that will follow."

He watched her, then, seeming to want her to confirm that she understood. Her throat was tight, and she knew that if she spoke she would betray how close she was to tears, so she simply nodded. Erik had never withheld praise during their lessons, despite what he said about not flattering her, and of course she had known that he must truly find her promising to offer to teach her in the first place. But the soft sincerity in his voice now struck her hard. And as weighty of a responsibility it seemed to live up to his expectations, his words did somehow manage to soothe her fears a little. As uncertain as she was about her own ability, she did not doubt Erik's. If he believed she could do this, then who was she to question him?

Swallowing hard, she managed to find her voice. "Thank you."

For a moment she imagined it looked like he wanted to come to her, to sit down beside her on the bed, but he did not move. "I ought to thank you," he said gently. "I appreciate your concern for me. But I wish to do this."

Christine smiled. "Then I am very fortunate to have you in my corner."

* * *

Soon after breakfast had finished, Erik slipped away for his meeting with the board members, leaving Christine seated in the parlor with the other ladies as they settled in to play cards. She claimed not to know how to play and insisted that she would be happy enough observing the game, privately glad that she would not be forced to gamble Erik's money since she had so little of her own remaining from her meager shop pay. Even if that had not been an issue, she doubted she would be able to play well with her mind constantly drifting to Erik's meeting.

She sat slightly back from the table where the others played their game, and for a little while they seemed content enough to let her fade into the background, which she did not entirely mind. Being left alone allowed her to indulge her nerves. She almost wasn't sure what she hoped the outcome of the meeting would be. Perhaps it would be better for both Erik and her if the board simply dismissed his suggestion outright, if they didn't even give her a chance. Erik would be disappointed, but surely it was not something that would cause him to resign or create some kind of fuss over. His position would be secure for the moment and she would not be given the opportunity to fail him spectacularly. But how could she not hope for him to get what he wanted? He had been quiet and steady during their conversation that morning, but there had been an intensity radiating from him. When he'd held her gaze, she had all but forgotten her own apprehension; what mattered far more than that was the beauty and fervor of his vision.

"Christine?"

She looked up at the sound of her name to find Lydia watching her expectantly. "Yes?" she asked a little dazedly.

"I asked if you were feeling all right, dear," Lydia replied gently. "You looked like you were miles away."

The other ladies at the table were looking at her too, now, and Christine ducked her head to hide her warming cheeks. "Yes, I'm only a little distracted."

"Oh!" Dora exclaimed, drawing Christine's attention to her. "Of course, I should have remembered. You mentioned last night that your husband had some business to take care of for the opera. Is it important, then?"

"I believe it matters to him," Christine said vaguely. It felt a little strange to be talking to these near-strangers about Erik, and she decided she preferred not to say much.

"And you are worried for him," Lydia finished, giving her a sympathetic smile. "Of course you are. It's good of you to worry, dear, but I'm sure everything will be fine."

There were murmurs of agreement from the other ladies, and for the first time, Christine looked over their faces to find genuine warmth. She wondered, then, if perhaps Erik's thought that marriage would make him more palatable applied to her as well—perhaps she was more acceptable to these women as a devoted young wife than as a singer. Something about the idea amused her, and she pressed her lips together to keep herself from smiling suddenly.

"Come and sit over here with me," Dora said, moving her chair over to make room. "I would offer to teach you how to play, but I'm afraid I could only teach you how to lose."

Christine did allow herself to laugh a little at this, and she was surprised by the touch of relief she felt as she moved her chair to sit beside Dora. Although she remained mostly quiet as the game and the conversation resumed, she did feel a little less isolated. Smiles were offered in her direction from time to time, and occasionally a question was directed at her, and her replies became longer and easier as she could feel herself gradually warming to the company of these women. It wasn't the easy, natural friendship that she'd formed with Meg, but she supposed it was as much friendliness as she could expect considering the differences between her and them. It could not completely turn her thoughts from Erik, but it was a much pleasanter distraction than she'd thought it would be.

Their conversation quieted suddenly and Christine looked up to find Erik standing in the doorway. "Forgive me for interrupting," he said, his voice too even for her to get a sense of why he was there. "Christine, may I borrow you for a while?"

"Of course," she replied, standing from the table and quickly excusing herself before following him out into the hall. She hadn't expected him to return so soon, which meant this was likely either very good news or very bad news. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. Before she could ask what was going on, Erik stopped walking and turned to her.

"They want to hear you sing."

She felt her breath leave her, and it was a second before she could manage a hushed reply. "What?"

"I'm sorry this is so sudden, but they want to hear you now."

"_Now_?" She suddenly felt terribly cold. "But I'm not ready yet, Erik. I have nothing prepared."

"I know." Erik's voice was low and surprisingly calm, and he held her gaze steadily. "I tried to convince them to wait, but they insisted that I come and get you immediately."

Feeling that she could not catch her breath, Christine began to turn away, her mind filling with every possibility of what could go wrong, of what _she_ could do wrong. Erik continued, though, and something in his voice kept her from fleeing.

"Christine, listen to me," he said firmly. "I need you not to panic. You can do this. Stay as calm as you can, and when we enter the room, imagine that it is only the two of us, that we're at home having a lesson. Sing as if you are only singing for me, and do not think about anything else. Can you do that?"

His words washed over her like a warm bath, and when the panic began to recede, she noticed that he was holding both of her hands, though she could not recall if he had reached out to her or if she had grabbed onto him. She did not let go, and after taking a deep breath, she forced herself to reply. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good. The carriage is waiting for us outside. Do you feel well enough to leave now?"

She nodded, although leaving this house to audition for these powerful men was the absolute last thing she felt she could manage. But she knew that they were waiting, and she owed it to Erik to do what she could. So she forced one foot in front of the other as he led her outside and into the carriage, gripping his arm with both hands as they went. Once they were in the carriage, he spoke soothingly, and although she was too distracted to hear most of the words, the cadence of his voice kept her nerves from entirely running away with her. She had not been anywhere near this nervous for her audition for the chorus, or even when she sang for Erik for the first time. This was not just her career at stake—it was his, too. She pushed the thought away, knowing that she could not possibly do this if she focused on it. Instead, she cleared her head enough to hear what Erik was saying to her.

"You can do this. There is nothing to be afraid of. You are wonderful."

She nodded weakly, and then the carriage lurched to a stop in front of a new house, larger and grander than even the Harrisons'. Not allowing her a chance to hesitate, Erik ushered her from the carriage and led her inside. Just beyond the entrance in the front parlor stood a group of somber-looking men in suits, and summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Christine squared her shoulders, forced her face into a pleasant, demure smile, and released her death grip on Erik. She felt unsteady, as if her knees might buckle beneath her at any moment, and the blood rushing in her ears only allowed her to catch snatches of the quick introductions that Erik was making—names like Astor and Vanderbilt among others she knew only from the society pages of the papers. She replied as brightly as she could to their half-hearted greetings, and then Erik was guiding her over to the piano, a steadying hand on the small of her back.

For just a second, he turned to her and held her gaze, and she forced the world around her to fade into the distance. It was only them—only his intense, golden eyes on her, only his careful, exacting attention. If she could sing well enough to please him, she could sing well enough for anyone. It occurred to her vaguely that she was not warmed up, but she would just have to ease herself into the piece and do the best that she could. Her heart was still hammering, but her head felt clearer, and she gave him a slight nod. With this confirmation, he sat down at the piano, and after a second the opening notes of The Jewel Song rang out, and there was no more time to worry.

From the first note that she sang, Christine felt a little easier, the music coming to her naturally. The melody began to fill her until Erik's playing finally drowned her anxiety, and then she was letting the music carry her, sweep her away. If her voice had faltered at all in the beginning, it quickly grew strong and sure, and she could feel the coquettish smile naturally forming on her lips as she sang. Erik's eyes remained on her and she resolutely kept her attention on the familiar sensation rather than risk becoming aware again of the others who were watching her. Her voice rose is a joyful crescendo, and then she was left to catch her breath as Erik played the final notes.

The silence that settled around her was jarring and she returned to awareness abruptly, looking first to Erik and then to the half dozen men across the room. One of them—she somehow had no memory of being introduced to him although it had only been minutes ago—thanked her and suggested that she might like to walk in the garden while they finished talking with Erik. She agreed and gave Erik another uncertain look before she left the room, hoping she did not appear too eager to be away from this place. Blindly walking back the way they had come in, she burst out into the warm summer air and continued walking around the side of the house until she was certain she was out of sight of the men who had just heard her sing. Then she stopped and brought her trembling hands to her face and breathed deeply until her heart returned to its normal pace. Nerves still knotted her stomach as she thought of what they might be saying to Erik, but at least she did not have to face them again. Now all there was for her to do was to wait and see what news Erik brought.

The minutes ticked by slowly, and Christine began to wander simply because she thought she might go insane if she remained still. She found it difficult to appreciate the beauty of the gardens, though, and she kept glancing back toward the house, hoping to find Erik walking out to meet her. She wasn't sure how much time passed in this anxious state, but finally Erik did emerge from the house, and she hurried toward him. Even as she came closer to him, she could not quite read his mood; he mostly just seemed tired, his shoulders hunched, one hand running over the seam of the mask at the top of his forehead. But then he smiled at her, easy and genuine, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Erik?" she asked softly when she reached him, the words that she meant to ask catching in her throat.

His smile broadened—she'd never seen him smile like this before. "You have the role."

For a moment she was sure she hadn't heard him correctly. "I have the role?" she repeated, half hopeful and half fearful that she had somehow misunderstood.

Erik nodded. "You do. Congratulations, Christine."

She could feel the grin spreading across her face as his words sank in and a short, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips, and then her arms were around him and after only a second of hesitation his arms were encircling her waist. She laughed giddily as she clung to him, the joy of it all making her dizzy, and the forwardness of her actions did not occur to her until she had pulled away. Erik did not seem displeased, though—a bit shy, perhaps, when he met her eyes, but not uncomfortable. But when she looked at him again she remembered with a jolt that her future had not been the only one in question, and her nerves flooded back.

"And you?" she asked urgently, but Erik gave her a small smile and shook his head.

"I am under close scrutiny, as usual, but my career is in tact for the time being. You do not need to worry about me."

"But I do worry about you," she told him. "You are risking your career for me. And I know that you do not see it as something you are doing _for_ me, but the fact remains that if I do not perform well, you will suffer."

"You are too kind, Christine," Erik said gently, taking a step closer to her. "I do not want you to worry yourself over me. I want you to enjoy where you are and work for your own sake, not for mine."

"Can _you_ honestly say that you do not worry about my performance at all for my sake and not your own?" she challenged, her expression softening when he hesitated. "Then we will worry together," she said decidedly. "And we will be happy together."

His smile slowly returned, making her own widen. "Very well."

They did not linger on the grounds of the estate for long, but when they arrived back at the Harrisons', Christine still felt as though her head was buzzing, her stomach fluttering in both nerves and exhilaration, and the idea of immediately returning to the subdued company of the others inside was not appealing. She asked Erik if they might take a walk down to the shore to allow her to catch her breath, and he agreed readily, likely also a bit relieved to be avoiding company for just a little while after the tense morning. Taking his arm without thinking, she led them around the house to the path that she had seen some of the others taking the day before, and just over a gentle, grassy hill, they reached the water's edge.

For a while they walked along quietly, meandering away from the house down the isolated beach. Christine took in deep breaths of the cool, fresh air, feeling a bit as though it was bringing her back to her senses. The breeze whipped her skirts around her ankles, and she thought a little longingly of how nice it would be to just run into the water and let the cold, salty waves carry her for a while. The image of how unsightly she would appear returning to the house completely soaked, trailing wet sand and seaweed behind her across the marble floor made her smile to herself. Erik was steady beside her, carrying his hat in his hand once the breeze had made wearing it impractical, and although he still seemed worn, his stance relaxed as they walked. After a while she could even see a faint smile on his lips. When they had walked quite a distance and had long lost sight of the house, they stopped and stood for a minute, still not speaking and just looking out onto the water.

Erik again ran his fingers across the edge of his mask, a gesture that she had noticed him doing earlier as well. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He looked at her as though he'd forgotten she was there for a moment. "Yes," he said. "The mask just irritates my face a little when I leave it on for a long time."

"You can take it off if you want." She saw his eyes widen and quickly continued. "I won't look. And I imagine the sea air would feel refreshing, don't you?"

He shook his head, smiling a little. "That is kind of you to offer, but it's not necessary."

"I promise not to look," she insisted, pausing as an idea occurred to her. Flashing Erik a smile, she stepped around him and turned until she stood perfectly behind him, her back lightly pressing into his. Even if she turned her head, she would only be met with his shoulder blade. "I'll stay right here," she told him. "I promise."

A minute passed, and she began to think that he would simply thank her again for the offer but tell her that there was no need. But then she felt him raise his arms, and she held her breath until he lowered them again. She didn't dare move and risk making him think that she was turning around to look at him. As much as she wanted to know, she would keep her promise.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yes." His reply was so soft that she almost couldn't hear it, as close to him as she was. "Thank you."

They stood like that in silence for a while, Christine eventually closing her eyes to enjoy the sound of the waves crashing and the warmth of the sun on her face, and the comforting feeling of the body pressed to hers. She wasn't sure if she had truly expected him to do it or not, but the fact that he had filled her with warmth. After the stress of the past two days, he deserved to have a moment of comfort and peace.

When he spoke again, the sudden sound of his voice nearly made her jump. "I used to be very frightened of the sea. When I was a child, the idea of all that untamable space terrified me."

"I have trouble imagining you being afraid of anything," Christine said.

There was a pause. "I'm afraid of many things."

"I am too."

She may have only imagined it, but she thought then that she could feel him leaning into her more. She thought about the night before when she had held his hand, remaining aware of the comforting touch even as her mind had grown hazier with sleep. It had felt as if his grasp was the only thing keeping her moored, and she had wished that she would never have to let go. Now his hand was so near hers that she could almost feel the brush of his slender, elegant fingers. She would barely have to move her hand at all—just the slightest motion and she could lace her fingers though his. She could take his hand and tell him that they didn't need to be frightened anymore, that they had each other and would take care of each other. But the words caught in her throat and her hands remained frozen at her sides.

So instead they simply stood. And maybe that was enough for now, she thought. Maybe it was enough for them just to be here leaning on each other, for him to trust her enough to stand here exposed.

She wasn't sure how long they remained like that before she felt him lift his arms again, and a second later he turned to her. Finally daring to face him again, she met his eyes and found a soft smile on his lips.

"I suppose we should return to the house. We'll be missed if we're away any longer," he said, although his voice suggested that he would not mind staying right here.

Taking his arm, she returned his smile. "Thank you for walking with me."

"There is no one I would rather walk with."

Christine didn't think she had ever been so proud of a distinction.


	9. Chapter 9

"Level with me, Erik, won't you?"

Erik was not sure whether or not to be pleased when, upon returning to Newport, Armand had promptly invited him and Christine to spend the day visiting their home. On the one hand, Armand was at least familiar; Erik knew what to expect from him, and this was usually enough to set him somewhat at ease. Familiarity alone was a welcome change from the couple of days spent surrounded by people who were barely acquaintances and who kept staring at him as though he was a spectacle brought in for their amusement. On the other hand, he had also known Armand well enough to expect a question like this, and he had not been looking forward to the conversation.

"I don't know what you mean," Erik replied dryly, not really even trying to convince Armand that this was the case.

"I am referring to your lovely wife," Armand said, nodding to where Christine played with his children across the lawn, his wife Isabella looking on fondly.

Erik's eyes remained on Christine, smiling and laughing as the young children looked up at her adoringly. She certainly seemed to have done a good job of charming everyone she'd met, quickly ingratiating herself with the Newport crowd despite her lowly status. Of course there were still those who kept their distance, who eyed her with a look of mild disdain and who undoubtedly wondered what the world was coming to when people like them were expected to socialize with performers. But even those people were not outwardly unpleasant to her, as it was clear that she had been welcomed by most of the Harrisons' guests. He'd noticed that even the board members, who had been set for battle against him, had softened a little when she'd entered the room. At least he could hold this up to Armand as evidence that this arrangement was serving its intended purpose.

"What about my wife?" he asked, eliciting an annoyed sigh from Armand.

"Erik, I am talking about the fact that one day you scoffed at the idea of ever getting married, and a week later you were betrothed. Whatever this relationship is, I am certain it is not a traditional marriage."

Erik glanced at Armand before returning his gaze to Christine. "We have an agreement," he said quietly. "To help each other."

Armand hummed thoughtfully. "And that is why you have been pushing so hard to cast her?"

"No," Erik said quickly, bristling a little at the suggestion that Christine did not fully deserve to be where she was. "No, the plan was simply for me to continue teaching her. Casting her as Marguerite is purely a result of her talent and dedication."

"And what has it cost you?"

Erik sighed. "I have been warned that I am on thin ice. Despite the fact that the board approved of her casting, they were not happy about the difficulty I have been causing them. Even the slightest wrong move from here will cost me the position. I am to be fully compliant in all matters, and even that will guarantee nothing." He turned to Armand, meeting his gaze. "Christine does not know that my situation is this precarious, and I do not want her to find out. She will put too much pressure on herself to succeed."

Even more than that, Erik simply did not like the idea of her being worried for him, and he knew that she would worry enough as it was. She gave her care and concern so freely, and surely he was not deserving of it. He thought back to the morning before, when she had pleaded with him not to put himself at risk by fighting for her to be cast. The way she had looked at him was seared into his memory—the crease between her brows, her wide, imploring eyes. He had not been able to remember the last time someone had cared about him that much. If he let her, she would torture herself with worry for him, and that felt far too close to hurting her himself. And anyway, she ought to be enjoying the excitement of the start of her career. He had no doubt that this would be the beginning of great things for her, even if it proved to be the end for him. The upcoming months would be hectic and nerve-wracking and thrilling for her, and she deserved to relish every moment of it. No, it wouldn't do for her to worry about him.

"So the two of you get on well enough?" Armand asked, drawing Erik's attention back to the present, and he hummed in confirmation.

"We think alike. I confess that I like her company more than I expected."

"High praise coming from you."

Armand wasn't wrong—it was more than Erik could say for anyone else. Even as well as they normally got along, he had expected her presence to become trying over their visit to Newport, if only because it meant that he would never be by himself. But he had found himself looking forward to the nights when they would return to their room and it would only be the two of them again. He could not have accurately imagined how soothing and simultaneously electrifying it was to feel her warmth beside him as he lay there in the dark, lying perfectly still so as not to risk disturbing her, listening to the soft sound of her breathing until sleep took him. And then that first night, when she had held his hand as if she was desperate for the contact… Her grip had loosened as she'd returned to sleep, but she had never pulled her hand away from his. He had thought that the foreignness of her touch would keep him awake, but the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes as the early morning light seeped into the room, feeling more comfortable than he could remember ever feeling before. He was warmer than normal, he'd noticed, and it had taken him a second to realize that Christine was the source of the warmth; she'd moved closer to him and her face had been pressed into his shoulder, their fingers still loosely entwined. He had wanted to remain there to savor her nearness, but the thought had jolted him back to the reality of the situation, and he had carefully but quickly extracted himself. She surely would not be happy to know that he'd been so close to her.

And then the next night, when they had returned to the room exhausted but gratified, having won a victory that day, it had almost seemed normal for them to climb into their shared bed. There had been a certain comfort to it. He'd turned out the light, and Christine had rolled over onto her side to face him.

"Thank you," she'd said quietly, and he'd been confused.

"For what?"

"For everything you've done to help me." There was a softness to her voice—he might have called it tenderness under different circumstances—that told him she was referring to more than just the casting that day. His impulse had been to assure her that there was no need to thank him, that his actions were motivated by objectivity (although, if he was painfully honest with himself, some level of fondness for her might sway him a bit occasionally). He had wanted to tell her that she was doing far more good for him than he was for her. But he'd turned to face her, only the dim outline of her features visible in the darkness, and the words hadn't felt right. It was a moment before he had replied, and even then the words had felt simultaneously too much and not enough.

"I'll always help you."

He could faintly see her smile at this, and it had made his breath catch. He had wanted to take her hand again but didn't dare reach for her, instead staying frozen where he was until her breathing had slowed and he'd known she was asleep. He'd laid awake long after that, trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him. Why was he finding himself not just happy to see her, but actually craving her attention? He would have to be an absolute fool to allow himself to become… _infatuated_ with her to any degree. She was like the dawn—beautiful and breathtaking, on the cusp of reaching her full, blinding brilliance. He supposed it was natural that he be drawn to her, but he knew he could never get any closer to her, never be able to reach out and touch her. He could admire her, bask in her light and warmth, but that would have to be enough. It _was_ enough—it was more than he ever thought he would attain. The soft smile that she always greeted him with, the caress of her voice during the hours that they spent together for their lessons, the earnest warmth of her expression as she tilted her face up to look at him when they took their evening walks… It was all far too much of a privilege for him to even entertain thoughts of wanting more, and he was determined to bury that vague longing that caused the ache in his chest now.

This was their arrangement, and there was safety in that; there was safety in knowing that he could never stray beyond these bounds, no matter how much he might want to. And if there was no possibility of that, then there was no use in wanting it. But the arrangement had already changed, part of him wanted to argue. They had agreed to help each other, but wasn't it more than that? The time that they spent together outside of their lessons hadn't been part of their deal. Christine's unwavering compassion and support hadn't been part of it either, although Erik supposed it was so natural to her that she couldn't help but be kind to him. But then the day before when they had stood on the beach and she had let him take off his mask, had that been more than just her innate compassion? He had stood there holding his mask in trembling hands, his heart racing, bracing himself for something to happen. And she had simply stood quietly with him, her back pressed to his. That had been… companionship. It had been tender and warm and, for a brief moment, he'd felt whole. Surely he hadn't completely imagined the connection he'd felt between them then.

Of course, the thought of that companionship still made something in him uneasy. The thought of _wanting_ that companionship—much less wanting anything beyond it, which he certainly did not—made a vague sense of foreboding settle in his stomach. Nothing good had ever come from his being close to someone, not even with his own mother. While logically he understood that the cancer that had taken her had not been his fault, they had not been on the best of terms for a while at that point, and he couldn't help but feel that the frustration and pain he'd caused her had accelerated her decline. And while his attachment to Christine could very well cost him his career, he had to admit that he was far more frightened of what it would mean for him when she inevitably grew tired of him, when she finally could not tolerate him any longer. It was bound to happen. He tried to convince himself that the inevitability meant very little to him, as it would only mean a return to the life he'd grown quite comfortable in before their marriage. But the idea of losing her company, of losing her smile and her warmth and her gentleness, left him feeling bereft, although he tried his best to convince himself that this was not the case.

There was a delighted shriek across the lawn as Christine chased the children around, strands of her hair coming loose from their arrangement as she ran, and Erik tried not to think about how her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders and down her back when she let her hair down at night, or how they framed her face so enticingly as she slept in the early morning. This was too much, and if he had any sense, he would distance himself from her immediately, returning to the letter of their arrangement and no more. But then she caught his eye and beamed at him, and he was helpless to do anything but return her smile. This helplessness would have enraged him had the cause been anyone but her.

"Well," Armand was saying. "You have your Marguerite. You have your charming wife. What's next in this master plan of yours?"

Erik shook his head. The plan had been left behind a long time ago. "I suppose it would be wise to focus on trying to stay afloat until the season starts."

"Try not to sound so upset about it," Armand said lightly. "You have what you want. Now you need to make sure it's successful."

He did have what he wanted, didn't he? The singer of his choice would be leading the season-opening production; her triumph on stage would usher in a season that was more or less of his creation, and if all went well there would be many more to come. That influence was exactly what he had wanted. But now that success was seeming less all-consumingly important than it had before. There was a twinge of longing that he was doing his best to ignore, even as stubborn as it was growing. He couldn't let himself name it, but he was having more and more difficulty denying that he could feel it. It was irrefutable in the ache in his chest when Christine smiled at him, in the electric thrill her touch sent through him. As fruitless and painful as this longing was bound to be, it was there, and he couldn't seem to rid himself of it.

* * *

Erik was certain his relief was palpable when, later that day, he and Christine were thanking their hosts for their hospitality as their luggage was loaded onto the carriage, but he didn't bother trying to hide it. There was some satisfaction in watching Christine bid goodbye to the women she'd spent time with, receiving genuinely fond embraces and warm congratulations from them—it was both assurance that, as he had hoped, people could not help but like her, and assurance that she had not spent the past few days as alienated as he had felt. The other guests were civil but kept their distance from him, and while he supposed that this was better than just about any alternative, it still left him feeling uneasy, and he was eager to return to the privacy of his own home where he could not constantly feel eyes on him.

Still, he knew, it could have been worse. The only person he had actually come to _dislike_ was George Wright, who was now leaning against the wall opposite him and observing the farewells. He did not like the man's arrogant self-assuredness or the way his voice boomed when he spoke as if he knew that everyone in the vicinity wished to hear what he had to say. Erik had done his best to avoid him and had been happy enough to be met with disdainful disinterest from him most of the time, but when they had happened into the same conversation, Erik had found everything about the man particularly aggravating. What had sealed his dislike, though, was the predatory gleam he'd noticed in George's eyes when he looked at Christine, which was far too often for his liking. Just one more reason to be thankful that their stay in Newport was finally at an end.

George must have noticed him watching and, much to Erik's dismay, was now sauntering over to speak to him.

"Seems my wife is quite taken with yours," he said. "It will be all I can do to prevent her from pursuing a career on the stage now. She has a terrible habit of getting these fanciful notions stuck in her head. It's a good thing she doesn't need her head for much else."

He paused as if expecting Erik to agree, and when no response came, he continued.

"Anyway, I suppose it's a good bit of fun for them, isn't it? It's good of you to go along with Christine's whims like this."

Just the sound of his voice made Erik bristle, and he bit back a reply, knowing that anything he said would likely only encourage him. Sure enough, when he received neither camaraderie nor defensiveness, George wandered off without another word. And then Christine was at his side, taking his arm as she always did, and he felt the tightness leave his chest.

"Not a pleasant man, is he?" she said low enough so only he could hear, and he nearly laughed.

"At least he has no artistic inclinations," Erik replied. "If I had to answer to him on the board, I would have given up my position by now."

Erik did not think he had ever been so glad to be at a train station in his life as he was when the carriage dropped them off at the Newport station. The stares of strangers were always easier to bear than the stares of acquaintances—they were less probing, as he was just a passing curiosity and not a person they knew and interacted with—and in a matter of hours he and Christine would be safely within the confines of his home again. Perhaps there the board's harsh scrutiny and the looming threat of dismissal would fade into the background a bit and he would be able to focus on his work without constant anxiety. Things would begin to come together quickly now, and his days would be more occupied than ever. And even with as much pressure as was on him now, he couldn't help but look forward to it. Armand had been right: this _was_ what he had wanted. He would finally see all of his planning come together, and Christine was the most important piece.

He watched her as they boarded the train and they took their seats, a bit surprised when she settled in the seat beside him rather than the one across from him. Nerves pooled in his stomach as he imagined what she must feel returning home with him after tasting the glittering and exciting world of the elite in Newport. It must seem terribly dull to go back to their isolated life in the city. Soon enough she would be busy with rehearsals, and of course she would be able to keep more company once high society returned to the city at the end of the summer, but he couldn't quite help the prickle of fear at the thought that she might come to resent him for the quiet, lonely days in between. Her face was content and serene, though, and after a moment he ventured to question her.

"Did you enjoy your stay?"

"I did," she said. "I found it more enjoyable than I expected. It was refreshing to leave the city for a while, and it felt so peaceful to be by the sea."

"The other ladies seemed quite fond of you."

"Some of them were," she laughed lightly. "I believe that some of them would not spare me a glance if they passed me on the street and were only being polite today, but everyone was kind, at least. And they were pleasant company."

"I am glad you found them agreeable."

"I'm sorry that the past few days have been more trying for you, though," Christine continued. "Did you at least find the company at all pleasant?"

Erik smiled a bit at this—while the company by and large had not been as painful and disastrous as it certainly could have been, the only company he had actually enjoyed had been hers. There was a slight pang in his chest at the thought that he would not have her warm, sleeping form beside him tonight, but he quickly pushed the thought away. He was fortunate enough to have her company at all, and allowing himself to desire more than this could not be anything but ruinous.

"It was not entirely unpleasant," he told her. "Although I cannot say that I would choose to stay longer."

"Nor could I. I'm happy to be going home."

Erik shifted so he could see her face better, but she did not appear to be anything but genuine when she said this. Warmth rushed through him at the realization that she had called it home—not just _his_ home, but _their _home. And she was happy to be going back, to return to their lessons and their companionable suppers and their peaceful walks in the evenings. It made little sense to him that she could truly value such things, but here she was, giving him a soft smile that felt wholly contented. When he spoke, his voice came out weakly.

"I am glad to hear that."

There was a pause before she spoke again. "You know I think it was very brave of you to go against those men to defend your vision," she said softly.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say. Eventually he settled for a quiet "thank you," not enough to express the way his heart now thrummed in his ears or the not unpleasant heat that rose to his face beneath the mask, but at least a coherent reply, which seemed as much as he could hope to achieve just now.

And then, looping her arm through his to draw herself closer, she leaned her head on his shoulder, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Her hair brushed his collar and tickled his skin, and even through the layers of fabric between them, the pressure of her arm against his sent shivers through him. He waited for her to quickly pull away, but she did not, and after a moment he half-wondered if she'd noticed an acquaintance nearby watching them and was simply playing the part of the devoted young wife. But he glanced around the train carriage and recognized no one, and it began to sink in that perhaps this was a genuine show of affection. The idea sent his heart hammering and he felt pleasantly lightheaded. Very carefully, he reached over to cover the hand that rested on his arm with his, and she did not pull away then, either. Hazarding a glance at her face, he saw that she had closed her eyes, her lips resting in a gentle smile.

He sat as motionless as possible as the train pulled away from the station, fearful that the slightest disturbance might make Christine shift away from him. But the minutes passed and still she stayed nestled into his side, and as the country flew past them, Erik thought that if they could remain just like this, he would gladly delay their return home a bit longer.


	10. Chapter 10

After returning from Newport was the first time Christine noticed that Erik's home really felt like home. She had started to feel it even before they had returned, that eagerness to be back where she belonged filling her as they began their journey back to the city. Perhaps it was simply the juxtaposition of having been somewhere where she felt quite out of place and now going back to the place that was familiar. Perhaps it was the relief of this visit and everything that it entailed being over—no longer feeling prying eyes on her and Erik, no longer being constantly concerned about what other people where thinking and having to try her hardest to impress them. Erik had been successful with the board and she had been fairly successful in becoming friendly with some of her new peers, and now the pressure was off and they could both return to the rather comfortable life that they'd been living in New York. But it had felt like more than that as she had sat with Erik on the train, leaning into him and letting the relief wash over her. It had felt like she was, truly, going home. It had been a long time since she had last been able to say that.

Once they were back, she had expected that they would return to the routine they had formed. And while that was more or less the case, she did begin to notice some subtle shifts. When she had come downstairs the first morning, making her way to the library as usual, she noticed that the door to Erik's study was open. Glancing inside curiously, she found him sitting at his desk, working as she imagined he always did. He saw her in the doorway and gave her a small smile and, quickly fetching the book she had been reading from the library, she returned and stepped inside.

"I thought I might read here this morning," she said. "If it would not be too much of a distraction, of course."

Erik seemed pleased. "I would enjoy the company."

Smiling, she settled into one of the chairs across from him and opened her book to the place where she'd left off before they had gone to Newport. After a moment, his voice drew her attention again.

"Gothic architecture."

She looked up to see him eyeing the book she had chosen, and she could feel her cheeks growing warm. "I thought that I ought to take advantage of your varied library and learn something new."

"And are you finding it interesting?"

"Very much so. I remember my father telling me about the cathedral in Uppsala where he and my mother were married. I always had trouble imagining something so grand and old, even though I suppose St. Patrick's gives a good impression of it, but now I can."

Erik smiled and turned back to his work, but Christine could see the smile still lingering on his lips when she looked up again a few minutes later.

And so that became an amendment to the routine. Every morning his door would be open, inviting her in, and she would sit with him while he worked. Occasionally he would ask her questions about what she was reading, and sometimes he even asked for her opinion on some plan that he was finalizing, always seeming to genuinely want to know her answer and never appearing annoyed at her presence. And even when they just sat in silence, it was a comfortable, content silence. She liked the feeling of working with him, liked just being near him as the morning passed—a reminder that she was no longer alone.

Then their lessons started beginning earlier and earlier in the day. It had been natural, Christine supposed, since she was already there in the room with him, but it was more like they were both too eager to wait any longer. She insisted that the lessons not last much longer than usual so she did not take up too much of his time, although he seemed happy enough to abandon his work in favor of teaching her. He would argue that, now that she was officially cast, it was important to devote more time than ever to preparing, and she found that she couldn't dispute that. The thought of the rapidly approaching rehearsals that would see her working with world-class artists, and of eventually making her debut on the grand night meant to celebrate the reopening of the opera house, paralyzed her with nerves as much as it thrilled her. And so she could never give much more than a half-hearted protest when Erik asked if she would like to begin their lesson early and then worked with her well into the afternoon.

She could, at least, see the improvement she was making. Of course, that improvement was now serving to make her more aware of her flaws, but she told herself to take some comfort in the fact that, as invested in her voice as he was, Erik did not seem too concerned. As exacting as he was during their lessons, as much as he pushed her, he was unwavering in his belief that she would be ready to perform in time and that she would be a great success. So she did her best not to think about how quickly those days were approaching and instead threw herself into their lessons with more fervor than ever.

They had started working primarily on _Faust_, going over the parts of the score that she didn't know as well and getting into the minutiae of the portions she knew well. They talked in depth about each scene, about exactly the emotions that they wanted to portray, about the depths of Marguerite's love and pain and madness. They studied each note, practiced every line until Christine knew it backwards and forwards. Christine had feared that such intense study might grow tedious, but Erik had a way of making the score feel new to her every time she approached it. He saw intricacies in it that she would never have noticed herself, making the familiar story bloom into new, fantastical worlds in her mind.

So it was frustrating for her now to feel stuck in how she sang her portion of the passionate duet at the end of the third act. Erik, of course, noticed.

"You're doing well, Christine," he assured her, but she couldn't help the aggravated huff that escaped her lips.

"I just feel like I'm singing this as if I'm singing to a wall," she said. "This moment is supposed to be my undoing, and I feel like I just cannot reach that level of emotion."

She had no desire to admit it, but the truth was that she feared that that kind of passion was simply outside of her understanding. Infatuation, longing, grief, she could all understand. Music had always drawn these feelings from her naturally. But this scene, Marguerite's sudden fall from chaste, cautious maiden to giving into Faust's cursed love… perhaps she was simply too passionless to connect to the feeling. But if that was the case, then how many heroines would she only be able to portray as tepid, weak-willed girls? What if she had come all this way, convinced Erik to put his career on the line for her, only to find now that she did not have the capacity for any of this? Taking a deep breath, she forced the thoughts to the back of her mind, telling herself that it was only her nerves running away with her.

Still, Erik appeared unfazed. "Give it time and it will come together. And do not forget that you _are_ singing to a wall. You are singing half of a love duet without your lover. It will all make more sense when you are in rehearsals singing with your Faust."

"Perhaps if you sang it with me. Surely you sing some, don't you?" To her surprise, Erik stiffened at the question.

"I suppose if it would be helpful to you…" he said after a second.

"I think it would be." Christine continued to watch him carefully, unable to understand his reluctance. It wasn't quite self-consciousness that she sensed from him—while he certainly had plenty of discomfitures when it came to himself, his musical abilities were one of the few things that were a true point of pride. And he had such a pleasant speaking voice that she had long wished to hear him sing. Perhaps his reluctance had nothing to do with himself and was something to do with her instead? Before she could question him, though, he seemed to reach some resolve and looked back up at her.

"Shall we begin at _Il se fait tard_?"

Christine nodded and took a second to position herself, making sure her posture was precisely as Erik had instructed and quickly running through the first few lines in her mind. Then when she was ready she glanced back at Erik, and he gave a slight nod and turned back to the piano, playing the opening notes.

She only sang a few words before Faust's part began, and as soon as Erik began to sing, her breath caught in her throat. His voice was like nothing she had ever heard before, silky smooth and resonate and possessing a quality she could not quite identify that gave it an unearthly sound. How was it possible that she had never heard him sing until now? She supposed he had sang a few notes here and there before to demonstrate a short passage for her, but now he was _properly_ singing, and it was entirely different. Warmth coursed through her veins and her head felt light, and she wasn't sure if she had remembered to take a breath since he had started singing. She did so deliberately now and found it did nothing to steady her; it was like she was floating, only aware of that divine voice and the pounding of her own pulse.

The silence that followed was jarring, and it took Christine a few seconds to realize that she had missed her entrance. Her cheeks grew hot as Erik turned to look at her.

"Forgive me," she murmured. "I need to look at the score." The words and notes that had been familiar to her a minute ago had now completely deserted her.

Erik passed the score to her, and she flipped through it for a moment, struggling to even find their place. She'd never felt so dazed before, and her struggle to recover her senses only added to her embarrassment.

"_O silence_," Erik reminded her, and she nodded, willing her mind to clear enough to find the words she knew she must have glanced over several times already.

Finally she found her place and Erik played a few introductory notes for her. Her voice was shaky at first and she was grateful that she could at least play it off as Marguerite's timidity. As she sang she felt herself gradually coming back to her senses, and when he sang again, it was all she could do to remain focused on the score in her hands and not be completely swept away by his voice again. When his voice swelled, she allowed herself to be lost in it just a little bit, her own voice taking on a dreamy breathlessness as she joined with Erik for a single word: _éternelle!_

And then she was caught in Marguerite's push and pull, frightened of the power this man held over her but wanting nothing more than to give into it, to lose herself in him. She allowed herself to be enraptured by Erik's voice, lulled by it, only to fight against it the next moment. It took strength to make her voice powerful, to make it rise above his until Marguerite finally fled from Faust.

Erik paused, then, instructing her to jump ahead to Marguerite's next entrance, and for a hazy second she was not quite sure of where she was, her mind still wrapped up in the world of the music. She managed to find the place Erik had pointed her to and began softly, her voice gradually climbing as her passion rose. Erik met her with a final fervent, pleading "_Marguerite!_" and she hit her climactic high note with a rhapsodic force that must have come from a depth that she had not known existed in her. It left her breathless and trembling, her knees weak, reeling with emotions that were not her own. Releasing a shaky breath, she returned her gaze to Erik and found him watching her intently. She remembered the first time she had sung for him, how after being so lost in the music it had frightened her to return to reality, to remember that he was observing her; she felt a similar stab of anxiety now as she realized that she had been paying no attention at all to her technique, to anything that they had practiced. But, just as before, he spoke before she could apologize for her sloppiness.

"How did it feel that time?"

"Not like singing to a wall," she laughed weakly. "It felt… real. All-consuming."

"And now that you have felt it, do you believe you can replicate some measure of that feeling when you sing?"

"Yes." The recollection that this had all been an exercise felt odd after such intensity. But she would certainly remember the feeling when she sang the section again.

Searching for words, she slowly moved to sit beside Erik on the piano bench. He looked away when she joined him, and she spoke softly and carefully.

"You have a beautiful voice." The word "beautiful" felt almost comically inadequate, but she was still catching her breath and could not think of anything more appropriate.

"Thank you."

"Why do you not sing, then? You seem so hesitant."

"It feels…" Erik paused. "…_intimate_. I cannot help but express the music that comes from somewhere within me, whether through playing or composing. But those forms allow me to… to refine what is filling me, to select the parts of myself that I expose. And when I sing, I find that the music comes unfiltered from the depths of my being."

Christine nodded, surprised to find that she did actually understand what he meant. The music that had come from her just now had been raw and vulnerable and something she had not even known she had possessed. To have a voice as powerful as Erik's… she could only imagine what she might expose of herself—things that she did not want others to know, things she did not want to know herself.

"Thank you for singing with me anyway," she said gently.

His lips quirked, but his gaze remained on the piano keys. "Perhaps we ought to stop for the day."

As soon as he said the words, Christine felt her limbs grow heavy, becoming aware for the first time how utterly drained the session had left her. She nodded in agreement, letting her shoulders sag and her eyes droop shut for a moment. As much as the lesson had taken out of her, though, there was also a strange kind of exhilaration to it. Singing with Erik, both of them fully consumed by the emotion of the music, had been ecstatic.

"But…" The sound of his voice made her look up at him again, and this time he met her gaze, his eyes soft but intent. "Perhaps we can continue to practice duets together. If you feel it would help you, of course."

Christine smiled. "I would like that very much."

* * *

It was a few days after this that Christine made her next trip to visit Meg, eager to relate to her everything she had seen during her trip to Newport and, of course, the news that she was to open the opera house as Marguerite. The summer heat had fully settled in now, and it was stuffy inside the carriage as she rode downtown to the boarding house, but she knew that walking would not have been any better, and part of her couldn't help but long for the cooling sea breeze that blew through Newport. Perhaps next year she had Erik could go back and stay with Armand and his family, or perhaps they could even find a place where they could be alone. That would require, of course, that the coming year was not a complete disaster for both of them, and she couldn't let herself think about that possibility too much.

Fortunately, the carriage lurched to a halt just then, and Christine thanked the driver and climbed out, finding herself on the street in front of the place she felt she'd been away from for decades. Part of her was surprised to find everything the same when she went inside, and she laughed at herself for thinking it would be otherwise—it had only been a couple of weeks since she had last been there to visit Meg, and barely a couple of months since she had lived there herself. That time was beginning to feel more distant with each passing day, though, so far from her days with Erik now.

Meg was waiting for her in the parlor and greeted her with a warm smile, and Christine rushed over to embrace her. As kind as some of the Newport ladies had been, she doubted Meg would ever not be her dearest friend—except, perhaps, for Erik, although Christine wasn't sure she would describe their relationship as a friendship. At least not in quite the same sense that she and Meg were friends.

"I have something to tell you," Christine grinned as they settled on the sofa, and Meg's brows shot up. "What?"

"Nothing. Just say what you were going to say."

"I'm playing Marguerite in _Faust_. On opening night."

Meg gasped and clasped Christine's hands. "Christine, that's wonderful! Congratulations. I always knew you were destined for greatness."

Christine laughed. "I would still question the truth of that, but thank you. It's so exciting and so terrifying that I hardly know what to do with myself."

"I can imagine. But you mustn't worry—I am certain you'll be brilliant. Everyone who hears you will love you."

"I hope that's true. It was Erik's choice to cast me, and he had to fight for it. He hasn't said much about it, but I know he will face consequences if I do not do well."

"You can't worry about that," Meg told her gently. "You'll drive yourself crazy if you do. Just focus on doing the best that you can and I'm sure everything will be fine."

"You know that not worrying is easier said than done for me. But I will try. I _am_ trying." She paused. "What did you think I was going to say before?"

Meg shook her head, laughing a little. "It was nothing. It's just that the last time you had something to tell me, the news was that you were betrothed."

Christine could feel heat creeping up her neck and into her face. "Did you think I was going to tell you that I was with child?" she asked quietly, unable to help the mildly scandalized sound of her voice.

"Can you blame me for thinking that?"

Christine wasn't sure whether she wanted to smile and laugh with Meg or crawl under the sofa and hide in embarrassment. "It's not like that."

"So you've told me," Meg replied easily. "But things change."

"Not that. He doesn't think of me that way."

Meg quirked a brow, smirking. "But _you've_ thought of _him_ that way?"

"No," Christine said quickly, sure that she was now pink to the tips of her ears.

Meg just laughed. "I'm only teasing, Christine. But it wouldn't be so crazy. He _is _your husband."

"Legally, yes."

Her expression softened. "But you do get along well, don't you? I would think it'd be horribly lonely, otherwise."

"We do get along," Christine replied, glad for the change of subject. "In fact, I like him quite a lot. He's… good company. When we were in Newport, people were generally friendly to me, but he was the only person I was ever really happy to see."

"That's good to hear. Honestly, Christine, I was really worried about you when you said you'd decided to marry him. You hardly knew him, and I didn't want to see you trapped in a miserable marriage. Even if he wasn't a bad man, that didn't make him someone who could make you happy. I would have tried to talk you out of it if I had thought there was any chance I could change your mind."

"I know. And you would have been right to talk me out of it—it was a rash decision. I was tired and frustrated and just felt the need to act on something, anything. I'm fortunate that it's worked out so far."

Meg hummed thoughtfully in reply, and Christine knew what she was thinking; while the marriage may not currently be the unhappy, lonely situation that she had feared, she still wished that Christine had waited for romance. Christine didn't know how to explain to her how the years of losing everyone she loved had driven the desire for romance from her, how it had come to seem like merely a distant dream, no more than a nice thought. It was safer to commit herself to her art, to devote all of her passion to something that could never be entirely taken away from her. She had known that the arrangement with Erik would allow her to do just that, and the added allure of security and comfort had made giving up her last thread of hope for romance seem worth it. And, a thought that felt so sad and desperate that she did not like to admit it even to herself, it would be a kind of comfort just to know that there was another person attached to her with as much permanence as could exist in this life. Whether or not she and Erik loved or even _liked_ each other, she'd known that he would be there.

The fact that they had come to like each other, that they had even come to rely on each other, was more than Christine had hoped for. The feeling of knowing he would be there when she returned home, that he would be glad to see her and talk with her, that he would help her and support her and she would do the same for him… it was better than any fairytale romance that she might have dreamed of as a child. This was warm and safe and reliable. This was companionship, _partnership_, even. She trusted him and was gratified to see that he trusted her as well.

Surely all of those things were the reason for the way her stomach fluttered when she thought of him, the way she looked forward to being near him, the way something in her settled when she held his arm or felt the gentle touch of his hand on her back. Or the fact that she missed feeling the weight of him beside her in bed as she fell asleep, knowing that he would be there through the night. Or how, even now, she thought about what he was doing and whether he was worried about his work and how he would lean close and speak lowly to her as they took their walk that evening.

She could not explain to Meg how this was so much better than romance.


	11. Chapter 11

Erik could feel Christine's excitement as she sat beside him in the carriage; it radiated from her, even as she sat with her hands demurely folded in her lap, her expression calm as she watched the streets slowly pass by them. It was in the alertness of her gaze, the way her lips twitched as if she was trying to contain a smile, the way her fingers unconsciously twisted the fabric of her skirt. It was infectious, and he had to remind himself not to fidget impatiently as they drew closer to their destination. When they finally reached 39th and Broadway, Christine practically leaped from the carriage, pausing to wait for him only when she stood looking up at the pale brick of the opera house.

"Does it look different?" he asked lightly as he came to stand beside her, and she laughed a little.

"It feels different, at least, knowing that the inside is coming together again."

"And knowing that you'll be performing here soon?"

Smiling, she looped her arm through his. "That, too."

While Erik made a point of coming to the opera house regularly to view the reconstruction efforts, it had only been in the past few weeks that the progress had become more visible—the opera house was finally beginning to look like it had before the fire. Debris had been cleared out, repairs to the structure had been made, and while the auditorium was still a nearly unrecognizable mess, the new stage was at least a comforting sight. There had even been talk of holding some small concerts in the portions of the opera house that had been spared from the fire now that the rest of the building was not an absolute wreckage. With so much having come together already, Erik found that the opera house was taking on a new energy, one of hope and renewal; it promised to be even more brilliant than it had before.

It had seemed like an appropriate time to ask Christine to walk through it with him, and her response had been as eager as he'd expected.

"Well?" he glanced over to find her gaze still fixed on the opera house. "Shall we go in?"

She turned and met his eyes, then, giving him a dazzling smile. "Oh, yes."

They crossed the street arm-in-arm and, breezing past shuttered ticket stalls and slightly faded posters advertising performances that hadn't happened, Erik guided her inside. The lobby was plush and so silent that it had the feeling of not having been disturbed in years. It was almost difficult to imagine how this space would, not too long from now, be filled with people in all their finery, the buzz of their conversations and bursts of laughter nearly deafening. Christine paused beside him to take it in, and the awe and excitement that were written plainly on her face were enough to keep him standing patiently beside her.

"You realize," he said gently after a minute, a smile tugging at his lips, "that this part is mostly unchanged."

"I know that," Christine replied. "But it's still lovely, don't you think?"

He hummed in affirmation, though it was only now that he really looked at the space. He'd been here many times over the years, from the few times he'd dared to sit among the throngs in the gallery to the multitude of times he'd shared a box with some acquaintance, usually Armand or one of his close associates, who seemed at best only mildly interested in his company. Then there were all the times he had passed through this room under the banner of employee, his title much less grand than it was now but still present. By then he was already determined to have some influence over this place, to make it grand and innovative as only he could. He wasn't sure when he had stopped seeing his surroundings as Christine saw them now—perhaps he'd never viewed them with that much wonder or reverence, even the first time he'd entered the building. But he could feel a touch of it now, and it made his nerves prickle, not unpleasantly.

Once Christine looked back at him, confirming that she was ready to move on, he guided her through empty corridors, pausing now and then so she could look at something. He found himself almost automatically explaining aspects of the architecture, beginning with the new elevators that had been installed, and to his surprise she listened to his explanations intently, nodding and asking questions that showed greater understanding than he'd expected; she really had been studying the books in his library, he realized with a little surge of pride. They continued on like that until reaching the backstage area, where Christine left his side to wander through the mess of barely begun sets and equipment that had not yet found its proper place. It smelled of sawdust and paint and the faint staleness of disuse. Erik stood back and watched Christine as she drifted through the chaos of it, letting his mind drift to the nights she would soon be spending here. He could see her carefully making her way through the dimness, giving greeting smiles to the stagehands and other performers as she passed them. And then she would emerge onto the stage and proceed to captivate thousands of people, making even the most social of opera-goers pause their visiting to listen to her.

He blinked, then, and as his vision returned to the present, he realized that Christine was watching him. He could feel the soft smile on his face and realized his gaze must have fixed on her as his thoughts had wandered, but he did not look away now. Instead he motioned for her to follow him.

"This way."

She did as he said, and in a moment they were stepping out onto the stage, the click of her heeled boots against the new wood rapidly swallowed up by the empty auditorium that stretched out in front of them.

Erik held his breath as he watched Christine step out onto the stage, her eyes wide and her lips parted in silent awe. He wished that the auditorium was complete and that she could feel the full effect of its splendor, although she didn't seem disappointed. A thrill ran through him as she crossed the bare stage and he thought of a night only a matter of months from now when her voice would fill the hall, enchanting and sweet and perfect. No one would doubt, then, that she was brilliant. The applause that would rain down on her that night would only be the beginning of the acclaim she would undoubtedly receive over her long and successful career.

But today, it was only the two of them; he was the only one to observe the excitement and disbelief in her features as she looked around her. When her gaze landed on him, she beamed.

"It feels so big."

Erik chuckled. "You'll grow accustomed to it. Sing something. See how it feels."

"What, right now?" Her voice grew soft. "What if someone hears me?"

"Then they will have had the privilege of hearing you before most." He gave her an encouraging smile; he wanted a glimpse of how her voice would make the space feel alive, wanted her to have a glimpse of the thrill that awaited her. "Go on."

She smiled and bit her lip, considering for a few seconds before turning to face the dismantled auditorium. Then, carefully, she began the Jewel Song, only making it through a few notes before cutting off and clapping a hand over her mouth, a nervous giggle escaping her lips. She looked to Erik and he nodded for her to begin again, and after pausing to compose herself, she did. Her voice rang out more confidently this time, acquiring an unearthly quality as it echoed through the empty space. Erik felt his breath catch, warmth blooming in his chest as she sang. This was what she was meant for, and he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told her that hearing her now was a privilege. He could hear in her voice that this was her passion, that she couldn't help but reveal a bit of her soul when she sang. Even during their lessons, her joy and tenderness and sorrow were infectious, touching some compassion in him that he had long thought buried and dormant. She moved him in a way that nothing else ever had. And seeing her now, on the cusp of greatness, felt like a great honor.

After a minute Christine glanced back at him, her smile growing when she found him watching her, and then she broke again, stumbling back in a fit of giddy laughter. Her entire face was alight, and the sight of it was dazzling.

"I cannot believe it," she was saying breathlessly. "I cannot believe that this is real."

Erik moved to stand beside her. "It will become realer still. Not long from now, you'll be making your debut on this stage." His hands itched to reach out and touch her, to caress her cheek or entwine their fingers—an urge that he had found himself having to suppress more and more. In a particularly desperate moment, he had even pondered finding a reason to return to Newport, where he would have the excuse of needing to make their marriage look convincing to place his hand on her back or, perhaps if he felt that more boldness was called for, even brush his lips over her gloved knuckles. He had banished the thought as soon as it had occurred to him, chastising himself for even allowing his mind to drift into such fantasy. He shouldn't desire such things.

"I cannot let myself think about that yet. I have too much progress left to make and too little time to make it."

"You will be ready," Erik told her gently. "You could perform for an audience this very moment and do perfectly well. Anything that we have left to work on is only a matter of perfecting your skills."

Christine looked doubtful but didn't argue. "You will have an office here, won't you?" she asked instead.

"I will."

"Is it finished? Can we go and see it?"

He smiled in amusement. "It's only an empty room."

"And this is only an empty stage," she countered. "The first successful season under your direction is worth anticipating at least as much as my debut. And I should like to see where you will be working."

"I still believe that you will be disappointed," he replied. "But we can see it if you insist."

Retracing their path through the chaos of the backstage area, Erik led her up into the hall of offices—mostly unscathed by the fire, but near enough to the damage that they had been kept cleared out nonetheless. The office that would be his sat completely empty at the end of the hall, but to his surprise, Christine was watching him with excitement as they approached it. He pushed open the door to reveal the bare room, the light from the hall catching the dust particles floating in the air. Still, Christine stepped in brightly, looking around the small space with genuine interest as he watched her from the doorway.

"When will you be able to use it?" she asked.

"Probably just before rehearsals start. Are you eager to have me at home less?"

"Just the opposite—I am relieved that I will not be alone long before I have rehearsals to occupy me. And perhaps you will be able to view some of the rehearsals when you are not too busy with other matters."

"I plan to."

She grinned at this. "Good. I trust your judgment more than anyone else's."

The comment gave him more pleasure than it should have, but he tried not to think about it. They spent the remainder of the morning exploring, taking advantage of the unusual lack of activity until it eventually became somewhat of a game to find the most obscure nooks and crannies—something that Erik had much more of a natural talent for, but Christine seemed perfectly happy to follow his lead. They were both laughing and giddy by the time they returned to the waiting carriage. The streets seemed busier than normal in contrast to the vast quietness that had surrounded them for the last few hours, but the fact didn't strike him as harshly as reemerging into the world after hours of happy solitude usually did.

No, with Christine at his side, looking as utterly happy as she did, he didn't imagine anything could seem wholly unpleasant.

* * *

The note had been waiting for them when they had returned from the opera house. Christine's head had still be buzzing with the excitement of it all and she almost hadn't noticed the pristine white cardstock that had been left on the table near the door. She had picked it up to examine it, feeling Erik step up behind her.

"What do you have there?"

"It's an invitation." She had read carefully through the neat handwriting until reaching Mrs. Harrison's signature at the bottom. "The Harrisons are hosting a ball at the start of the season and they would like us to attend."

"They would like _you_ to attend, my dear," Erik had replied lightly. "I am incidental."

"Isn't this what you wanted, though?" she had pointed out. "Didn't you marry me with the hope that I would help open these kinds of doors for you?"

"I suppose so," he'd said with a sigh. "Although I would have been perfectly happy gaining favor without attending social events."

"I don't know if such a thing is possible when it comes to New York society. Besides, you've gone to plenty of these parties—you told me yourself that playing at events like this was how you began to make acquaintances from the opera. I should think you know what to expect by now."

"I _have_ attended more than my share of events as it is, and I _do_ know what to expect. Hence why I am less than excited about the prospect of attending another." He had already been heading down the hall toward his study, and Christine had let him go. She could hear in the tone of his voice that he was not upset, exactly—likely more agitated. He was under enough pressure as it was making preparations for the season at the opera, and she could find more than a few reasons he would not relish the added stress of taking the _social_ season into account. But this had been what he had wanted when he'd proposed their arrangement and, she supposed that in a way, it was time to hold up her end of the bargain.

She'd decided to let the idea of the ball settle with him and had not mentioned it the rest of the afternoon or over supper. That night, though, found the two of them sitting quietly in the garden, Christine fanning herself gently as she watched Erik meander restlessly around the small plot, examining the roses growing with more focus than was called for.

"You know it will be fine—all of this." She spoke softly, her voice carrying easily in the quiet night. "This is what you've planned for. They're giving you the chance to ingratiate yourself. I know that you won't rest easier until the season has proved successful, and it will. But perhaps this could be some assurance in the meantime."

Erik nodded but didn't turn to face her, not needing to clarify what she was referring to. "You're right. I just… dislike these kinds of occasions. It is not pleasant to be gawked at, to be an oddity."

The words were spoken so quietly that Christine almost couldn't hear them, and she wondered if perhaps she hadn't been meant to hear. Standing, she crossed the garden until she was beside him, the scent of the roses on the warm night air enveloping them both.

"Then we will not go," she said simply. "If it causes you so much discomfort, it is not worth it."

He did look at her, then, giving her an appreciative smile that only made the tightness in her chest increase. "Thank you for offering, but you were right before—we will go and make the most of it. This is what I wanted. And I suppose that if I am to remain the opera's musical director, I will have to get used to being seen at these events."

"It won't be so bad," she assured him. "It will only be one evening, not like Newport. And I will be there with you."

His smile grew at this. "I am grateful for that."

"We can dance whenever you do not wish to talk to someone," she added lightly, earning a small chuckle.

"I ought to warn you that I am not an experienced dancer."

"Then we shall practice." The gradual lift in his mood encouraged her, and she wished to draw him out further, even if she was not sure she fully understood what exactly was burdening him at this moment. The shift in his mood had been sudden when they'd received the invitation, like a door closing, and she knew that she had barely glimpsed what was behind that door on the best of days. It was easy enough to understand his worries about being gawked at, and how the idea must add to the unpleasantness of the scrutiny he was already under at the opera. But it seemed to her that there was more than that, a heaviness that ran deeper than what she could see. Whatever it was, she did not like the way it had stolen him away after their pleasant morning at the opera house, and she was determined to bring back some semblance of that lightness.

He looked at her, the question clear in the quirk of his lips, and she gave him a playful smile in return as she took a step back, lifting her arms and swaying as if dancing with a partner while quietly humming a lilting waltz. A soft smile spread across his lips as he watched her, and she gave him a pointed look as she continued to dance until he gave in to her invitation. Grinning as he stepped toward her, she eagerly took his hand, placing her other lightly on his shoulder while his came to rest on her waist, his touch so gentle that she could barely feel the pressure of it. He joined her in humming the tune and the sound of his voice blending with hers sent a thrill up her spine.

They fell into step, a bit stumblingly at first. But Christine had come to doubt that Erik could be unskilled at anything musical, and this proved to be true of his dancing as well; at first his steps were cautious and faltering, but he quickly began to ease into it, as if it was physically impossible for his body not to line up with the music. It wasn't long before he was smiling and laughing with her as they danced merrily through the garden, their steps quickening as the glee accelerated their singing. Christine was breathless and giddy when they reached the end of the song, and pausing to catch her breath, she closed her eyes and leaned her head forward to rest it on Erik's chest.

Everything went very still, then. She could feel the rapid beating of his heart, matching the thrum of her own pulse in her ears. The silk of his waistcoat was smooth against her forehead—in the summer heat he had taken to removing his jacket at home. He did not tense at the contact but almost seemed to be holding his breath, as if he was afraid that the slightest movement might scare her away. But there was something lovely about this moment, and she did not want to move.

She felt the vibration in his chest before she heard him begin to quietly hum a new melody, this one soft and slow, and she leaned into him more without quite realizing it. All she was aware of was him, was the warmth and sturdiness of him. There was a longing in the melody he sang that made her ache and want to hold onto him all the more. Her feet moved, but only in small, shuffling steps, just as his did. The feeling of his thumb running across the back of her hand made her breath catch, and then he drew her closer almost imperceptibly and she could suddenly feel tears pricking her eyes.

There had been so many nights since Mama's death when she had lain awake in the darkness, longing to be held. Loneliness would fill her like a great, gaping chasm until she felt so empty that she thought she might collapse in on herself. She would close her eyes and try to remember what it felt like to be a small child in her father's arms—the love, the comfort, the absolute safety of it. Now, standing here in the garden with Erik holding her so close, those painful nights seemed far away. There was such tenderness in how he held her, and it made her feel warm to her very core, made her feel peaceful and secure in a way she hadn't felt in a very long time. But there was more than that; she wanted to hold him, too. She wanted to be that source of comfort for him, to banish the sadness that would sometimes creep into his voice without him noticing, to wrap her arms around him tightly enough to convince him that he was not alone and that she—

That she what? The thought nearly made her pull away from him in surprise. But she remained where she was, tucked securely into Erik's chest and suddenly very confused about why she wanted to be there so badly. There was no denying that she had come to care for Erik, certainly, but she had never considered the possibility of something more than that. She had always been truthful when she'd told Meg that she hadn't _wanted_ more, that _more_ was too painful and impractical and she was better off without it. And yet here she was, feeling that stirring in her stomach, and she couldn't even find it in herself to want the feeling to go away. Whatever happened next, this, right now, was too pleasant to give up. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad to allow herself to sink into it, just for a little while. She would enjoy the feeling for now but eventually come to her senses, because that was what she always did.

She told herself that it didn't have to hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi, folks! I hope you all are staying healthy and safe during this stressful time. I just wanted to thank you for all the love this story has been receiving. It makes me so happy to hear from you all, and I'm so glad this story can be somewhat of a bright spot right now—working on it definitely makes me feel better. We only have a handful of chapters left, but I'm bringing you an extra long chapter today, and next week's chapter is somehow looking even longer. All the better to escape into!**

**Thank you so much for reading!**

* * *

Christine could not recall ever studying her reflection as carefully as she did now, but she supposed that the occasion called for it. To her surprise, she was not particularly nervous; she had remained steady and optimistic for Erik's sake, and perhaps she'd managed to convince herself that this was how she actually felt. Or perhaps it was a result of those few days in Newport, now nearly two months ago but seeming more like a lifetime ago, that gave her confidence about tonight. If people had been polite enough then, even friendly, then surely she and Erik had nothing to fear tonight. The Harrisons had only ever been kind to them, and while she certainly could not blame Erik for his discomfort, she was sure that the situations he feared would not come to pass at the ball that night.

Still, it was important to put her best foot forward. There would be many more people there tonight than they had visited with at Newport, people who could easily make an impact on her career or Erik's. So she had taken special care with her appearance, arranging her hair into an artful pile and blending the faintest bit of rouge into her cheeks and lips. The gown that she wore had been ordered just for this occasion, and she couldn't help but be enchanted by the drapes of blush-colored silk, the swathes of soft tulle embellished with tiny sequins that caught the light when she moved, the way the folds of the puffed sleeves resembled the roses that grew just below her window. The effect was soft and dreamlike and she was sure it was the loveliest she had looked in her entire life. She could only hope that her appearance would make it easier for her to come across as the graceful, charming young wife and artist that she intended to be tonight. If she looked like she was meant to be part of society, perhaps she might actually fit.

Satisfied with her appearance, she headed downstairs to find Erik in his study, seated at his desk. "Are you ready to go?" she asked gently.

His gaze flicked up to her and he opened his mouth to speak, but it was a moment before the words formed. "Yes, I'm ready."

His eyes lingered on her, and she ran her hands over her skirt self-consciously. "Is something wrong?"

"No." His voice was soft, and he came to stand beside her and he finally met her eyes. "You look lovely."

Something about the softness of his voice made her cheeks warm. "Thank you. You look quite elegant yourself."

"It's kind of you to say that." Offering her his arm, his smile faltered for just a moment. "I suppose we should go, then."

Christine rested her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, running her thumb up and down his arm in what she hoped would be a reassuring gesture. "It will be fine."

He gave her a slight, unconvincing nod. "I'm sure you're right."

The night was cool as they climbed into the carriage—the first night of the season that hadn't been completely permeated by the summer heat—and Christine wasn't sure if the chill that ran up her spine was from the temperature or the anticipation. It was nothing to worry about, she told herself. Everything had been fine in Newport, and everything would be fine tonight. They would go and be friendly and sociable and get along just fine with everyone, and then they would return home and return their focus to preparing for the opera season. Perhaps Erik's nerves were rubbing off on her after all.

Even if she hadn't been nervous before, there was an unmistakable stab of anxiety when the carriage stopped in front of one of the grand stone mansions that graced Fifth Avenue, larger than even the boarding house that she had inhabited with a dozen other women. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at Erik and found him looking back at her, his lips pressed into something that was not entirely a smile and not entirely a grimace. She hoped that her answering smile was more reassuring.

As soon as they entered the mansion, they were met with a burst of light and commotion, the strains of the orchestra playing in the ballroom mingling with the buzz of conversations and bursts of laughter. The ballroom itself was a dazzling blur of color and merriment. Guests danced gaily at the center of the grand, gilded room, with others all around them observing and visiting over readily supplied champagne. The sight of it all was almost too much for Christine to take in. Erik stood still beside her, and she wasn't sure if, like her, he was simply overwhelmed by the scene or if, also like her, he wasn't quite sure what to do next. They didn't have to wonder long, though, as Lydia Harrison swooped to their side, greeting them with a friendly smile.

"I'm so glad you both could come," she gushed, although Christine noticed that she was looking mostly at her when she spoke. "It seems like ages since you stayed with us, and I know that everyone from Newport is eager to hear all the latest news from the opera."

"I don't know that any of the news we have to share would be particularly interesting," Christine laughed. "But we have been looking forward to seeing everyone again just the same."

"Well, then, I will let you make the rounds. I believe I just saw—yes! George and Dora are just over there."

Christine followed Lydia's gaze until she spotted the couple, George looking quite bored as he sipped his glass of champagne, and Dora's face appearing measuredly serene until she caught Christine's eye and broke into a genuine smile. Lydia was already rushing off to greet another guest, and so there was nothing to do but to speak with Dora and George. Christine had to admit that she _was_ glad to see Dora, even if she could do without her husband.

"You look so beautiful, Christine," Dora gushed as they approached. "That dress suits you wonderfully."

"Thank you," Christine smiled, taking her hands and accepting the light kiss to her cheek. "You look lovely as well."

"We must find time tonight to catch up, just the two of us."

"I would like that." Christine looked up as George came to stand by his wife's side, although she thought it would be more accurate to say that he loomed over her. Without thinking she took a step back until her shoulder brushed Erik's, and she was grateful for the steadying hand he placed on the small of her back.

"Mason," George greeted, not entirely warmly. "How's the music world treating you?"

"Perfectly well," Erik replied evenly.

"Sounds to me like some high-pressure work. Can't say I envy you."

"It certainly is, but I find that the work is its own reward. Especially when it allows me to work with talented artists like Christine."

Christine smiled and shook her head at this. "I am the fortunate one. Erik is putting together an absolutely dazzling season, and it is an incredible thing to witness."

Erik glanced at her, his lips quirking, and the small expression made warmth bloom in her chest.

"I suppose the _most_ fortunate thing," Dora cut in peaceably, "Is that you found each other. The two of you make a formidable team."

"I suppose we do." As much as Christine itched to get away from George and this conversation, something in Dora's words made her pause and appreciate the truth in what she'd said. She had long known it was a lucky thing for Erik and her to have found each other, for this arrangement of theirs to have turned out so agreeably. But sometimes it hit her afresh just how lucky they were, and now, seeing the way George stared down Dora, his expression a facsimile of agreeableness but his eyes cool, was one of those moments. Erik spoke up just then, and her fondness for him at that moment only increased.

"If you'll excuse us, we'll have to catch up later. I believe Christine was quite keen to dance."

And then he was whisking her away toward the dancing, and she gave him a playful smile.

"I'm not sure we can dance enough to avoid conversation for the entire night," she said lightly.

"But we can dance enough to avoid conversation with George Wright," Erik replied lowly. "I do not care for that man."

Christine could hardly blame him—aside from the obvious arrogance, there was something else in George's manner that she couldn't quite identify but that unsettled something in her. Dancing with Erik sounded far more pleasant than continuing to force uncomfortable conversation with him.

They fell into step easily, despite Erik's supposed lack of skill, and Christine quickly felt swept away by the bright waltz. The room around them was dizzying, with couples swirling all around them and the joyful music filling her senses. She met Erik's eyes as they moved across the floor and found him watching her with a gentle smile, and the expression sent a burst of warmth through her that made the merriment around them fade into the background—none of it seemed to matter as much as that soft smile of his. She could feel her own smile grow in response, her heart beating a little faster as if to match the count of the music. She had tried not to think about what these feelings were, what they meant; if she did not acknowledge them, then they could not be significant. But she was finding it harder and harder to tell herself that the feelings meant nothing, and even more dangerous, she was beginning to find that she didn't _want_ them to be nothing. It was so pleasant to give in to these feelings, and Erik was so gentle and safe that sometimes she could feel her fears easing just a little, her guard beginning to drop. And sometimes she found that she could even convince herself that perhaps Erik felt this way, too.

Like when he looked at her the way he was now.

The song ended and they danced another, and then another, and all the while Christine was examining his expression, searching the curve of his mouth and the crinkle of his eyes for an answer to her question. It would be so much easier if she could only see his face. Sometimes she forgot that she hadn't actually seen his face, as if the mask was all there was. But sometimes it would strike her with force and she would have to bury the urge to ask him about it, about what lay beneath the mask and whether she might ever see it. And then she would think about how he shrank from the gazes of others, how much he isolated himself, and there would be a stab of guilt for even wondering.

Someday she would ask him. She would find the right time; she would wait until she was certain he trusted her enough to discuss something that was clearly so painful. Until then, she would work to gain that trust, work to put him fully at ease with her.

And there had undoubtedly been progress on that front already. Ever since their trip to Newport, it had seemed to be a little easier for him to reach out to her. He enjoyed her company just as she enjoyed his; the companionship that had developed between them was comfortable and secure. Then there were the moments when she wondered if he might feel more than that, and that possibility made everything between them at once seem more substantial and more uncertain.

After the third dance, Christine noticed something over her shoulder catch Erik's eye, and she glanced back to see a group of men standing around, some of whom she recognized from the group who'd auditioned her in Newport. They were looking in Erik's direction, their faces serious, and one of them motioned for him to join them. Turning back to look at Erik, Christine found him glancing uncertainly between her and the men.

"Go and see what they want," she said softly, giving the hand that she still held a gentle squeeze. "I can entertain myself for a while."

"I hope not to be gone long," Erik replied. She gave him an encouraging smile and let him go. Then she paused for a moment to survey the room, suddenly remembering how lost she had felt in Newport without Erik at her side. But then she spotted Dora again and, glad to see that her husband was not currently with her, hurried to join her at the edge of the room.

Dora grinned when she saw her coming. "I do hope you're coming this way to visit with me."

"Of course I am," Christine said. "I'm afraid that my husband has been distracted and I am in need of a friend."

"I feel honored to be your second choice of companion after your husband," Dora laughed before lowering her voice a little. "You know that the two of you make quite a lovely couple. I must admit that I envy you for how well you seem to get on. Don't misunderstand me—I do love my George dearly," she added hastily, "but there's a certain ease between you that I imagine is rare to come by."

"I understand what you mean. I do feel that we share a… a natural connection of some kind. I admire him quite a lot."

Dora laughed again at her shy admission. "I should hope so. But perhaps the admiration is different than what most new brides feel for their husbands."

"How long have you and George been married?" Christine asked, suddenly a bit self-conscious and hoping to move away from the topic of her relationship with Erik.

"About three years," Dora told her. "I remember how, when we met, I thought he was the most dashing man in the world. I couldn't get him out of my head for a moment. We only courted for a month before he proposed, and I was so head-over-heels in love with him that I swore to my parents I would never marry if they would not allow me to marry him."

She glanced away for a second, and Christine thought her smile turned a bit wistful.

"Of course you get to know a person much differently when you're married, and I think we both realized that there was more to the other than we'd thought. And that can… complicate things sometimes. But I vowed to love him for the rest of my life, and I don't think I could stop if I tried."

Christine felt a pang of pity for Dora as she spoke—undoubtedly she did not mean for her voice to grow as sad as it did—and again, she was filled with gratitude that her situation with Erik was different. She had not been blinded by infatuation only to realize once it was too late that her husband was not the man she thought he was. If anything, it had been just the opposite for her. The more time she spent with Erik, the better she liked him, and despite having gone into this arrangement expecting very little in terms of actual companionship, she somehow found herself very happy. And while she could not quite imagine how Dora could have found George to be so charming that she'd fallen insensibly in love with him, she could only imagine what the past few years had been like for her as she had come to see him differently. Christine wasn't sure whether it would be worse to fall out of love with the man she had married or to be unable to fall out of love even when she wanted to, even when she realized that the man she'd fallen in love with was not the reality of her husband.

"I have to admit," she said, her voice low, "that that frightens me sometimes—caring for someone more than you should."

A confused look crossed Dora's face, but she seemed to consider before answering. "I like to think that something good will always come from loving someone, even if the circumstances are difficult and it only seems to cause you pain. In the end, I can only hope that I'm a better person for loving George."

Before Christine could decide how to reply, the man they'd just been speaking of appeared at Dora's side, giving them a grin that made Christine feel slimy. "You two look like you're talking about something important."

"Not at all," Dora replied breezily. "Just remarking on the couples dancing."

"I'm surprised your husband abandoned you so quickly when you were looking forward to the dancing so much," George said to Christine. "Perhaps I can offer you a dance in his absence."

"Oh, dear, I believe Christine wanted to rest for a few dances," Dora cut in. "You know how all of this excitement can overwhelm a person."

Christine wasn't sure if Dora had seen her discomfort at the suggestion or if she was simply more aware of her husband's character than she let on, but she was grateful to her either way. George, however, was clearly not one to be dissuaded easily.

"Nonsense, I insist. You young ladies live for dancing, don't you? I would hate for your first ball to be a disappointment."

Christine wanted to refuse, but his gaze was so intense and direct that she could feel herself freeze. Unable to think of a polite way to decline, she hesitated for moment before stammering an acceptance. She tried not to shrink away when he put his hand on her back to guide her to the dancing, and she was certain that she'd caught a glimpse of an apologetic look from Dora as they'd turned away.

Her eyes swept over the room in search of Erik as she and George joined the dancers, and nerves began to pool in her stomach when she realized she couldn't find him. Still, she tried to calm herself; she could excuse herself after one dance and keep herself busy until she could find Erik again, and it wasn't as if George could try anything untoward in the middle of the crowded ballroom, if he even was the kind of man who would _want_ to try anything. It was completely possible that he was unpleasant but perfectly harmless and she was being unfair to him. But she couldn't deny that she would be all too happy when this dance was over. It did seem to her that he was holding her a bit closer than was entirely proper.

"So, I hear that your Mason has given you a sizable role for your debut season," George was saying. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she replied quietly. "I'm looking forward to it very much."

"That sounds as though it will be an important career move for you. But then I'm sure that was the hope."

Christine furrowed her brow. "Excuse me?"

George chuckled without warmth. "Oh, come. No one really believes that you and Mason are a love match. Well, perhaps Dora does, but anyone with half their senses can see otherwise. And don't worry—I can hardly blame you. In fact, I applaud you. It was an advantageous move."

It took Christine a moment to find the words to reply. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wright."

George was obviously not buying her shock at the suggestion that she and Erik had not married for love. "You could not truly have expected most people to believe that you are in love with that man—anyone who's met him knows that he doesn't exactly have much to recommend him. I suppose it's possible that _he_ believes it, and if that's the case, then I have to say I like you even more. Some people just deserve to be taken advantage of, and I'm certain that you're earning everything you're receiving."

Christine was unsure she had ever been this angry before; the anger welled up in her so intensely now that she could hardly think, hardly string words together, and her ineffectiveness only frustrated her even more. Part of her was tempted to lash out and slap George, her palm itching to feel the sharp sting as she smacked that smug look off his face, but that would hardly help her image or Erik's. And so all she could manage to do was bite back a harsh retort, and George seemed to take her silence as confirmation that he was correct.

What made her even more upset was the realization that he _wasn't_ wrong, not entirely. She _had_ married Erik to help her career. But she was not tricking him or taking advantage of him, and she certainly did not think of him as coldly as George implied. And the suggestion that Erik _deserved_ that, that he deserved to be used and hurt by someone he had come to care about… she realized how firmly her jaw was clenched and tried to relax her face, covering her anger with a mask of placid civility that she was certain appeared forced.

"I believe you have misunderstood," she said as evenly as she could manage. "Erik and I are very happy together."

"But you cannot honestly say that you are in love with him."

Christine hesitated. She hated herself for hesitating, and she also hated herself for even considering the possibility. _Love_ was the very word she had never allowed to enter her mind, and yet coming from George, the suggestion that she did not love Erik seemed offensive. But how could she admit something to a man she could barely tolerate when she could not even accept that thing herself?

George gave a satisfied smirk when she did not immediately argue. The look made shame well in her.

Mercifully, the dance was soon over, and she was quick to excuse herself. Her face was hot with anger and embarrassment, but she made herself steady her breathing and, grabbing a glass of champagne off a tray being carried past her, she found that a healthy drink of it did seem to calm her a little. Just when she had fully composed herself, Erik appeared at her side.

"There you are. Sorry to have been away so long."

"That's all right," Christine said, glad that her smile did not feel entirely forced. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, it's all fine," Erik told her. "They had been rethinking a small matter that we had discussed before. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm glad to hear that." She looped her arm through his, the champagne glass in her other hand now empty and her head feeling just a little bit lighter. If people wanted to gossip about them, let them. But tonight they'd see a couple very much in love.

Erik took her over to introduce her to a few of the men from the opera whom she hadn't met before, and she tried to push aside the lingering traces of her irritation to greet them warmly. As they stood and visited, she stayed close to Erik's side, keeping a hand on his arm and occasionally glancing up at him brightly, as though he was the best thing she had ever seen. She danced a few more dances, and when she danced with others she made her relief to return to Erik clear. She did not need to exaggerate her preference for the dances they shared; when she was in his arms, the tension that had built up in her at the thought of how they were being watched and spoken about eased. It returned quickly, though, when they stood visiting with others. She began to notice him glancing at her, confusion in his eyes, when she stood closer to him than normal and gazed at him with what she hoped was a look of blatant adoration.

After a while, they found themselves at the edge of the room, mercifully not in the midst of a slightly forced conversation for the moment, and Christine let herself sag into Erik without thinking about it, leaning into his side. The glittering, bustling party that had dazzled her a couple of hours before now only felt exhausting, and she longed for them to return to their quiet, peaceful home. She felt Erik shift, and then he was speaking softly to her, his lips close to her ear.

"May I talk to you for a moment?"

Christine nodded, and Erik led her out of the ballroom, the noise and the people watching them gradually diminishing as they walked down the hall. At the end of the hall was the conservatory, dim and quiet. Erik paused to peer into the room, and when no one appeared to be there, he led Christine inside. The night surrounded them, windows taking up almost every inch of the walls and an intricate glass ceiling stretching out over them. It was all in stark contrast to the bright, raucous party that was now only faintly audible, and Christine breathed a sigh of relief at this moment of peace. She moved to sit on a bench sheltered beneath tall palm fronds, and after a second Erik sat down beside her.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked quietly.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You seem on edge. And quite… affectionate."

"If I am making you uncomfortable, please tell me," she said. "I only meant—well, I suppose I meant to look like your loving wife."

"Did something happen?" She had not intended to tell him about her conversation with George, but his voice was so gentle now, so entreating.

"George Wright cornered me into dancing with him while you were gone, and he… he seems to think the worst about the nature of our relationship."

It was Erik's turn to frown in confusion. "What did he say?"

She began to shake her head, not wanting to repeat to Erik the things that George had implied about him, but he pressed her.

"Christine."

"He… suggested that people believe that I am taking advantage of you, that I married you because I knew that you would help my career."

She could feel Erik tense beside her. "How anyone could think poorly of you, I cannot imagine. I am sorry, Christine."

"It's not—" Christine sighed. "I am not concerned about what people may speculate about me. It was… it was the implications about you that upset me."

Erik nodded in understanding, his mouth pressed into a firm line. "So he does not believe that our marriage is genuine because he does not believe you could love me. I suppose the possibility of that should have been obvious to me. Perhaps I should even be surprised to only be hearing the suggestion now. There must be plenty of others who think it."

"I know that we should pay no attention to what he says, but it was an awful thing to suggest." She couldn't prevent a flash of anger from entering her voice, but Erik only gave her a soft smile.

"You are very kind to be upset for me," he said. "But I have learned to put little stock in the things that people say about me. Much worse things have been implied about me, and much worse things have been said directly to me. I am only sorry that your reputation is now tied to mine."

"I already told you that I am not concerned about my reputation—if I was concerned about such things, then I would have made a poor choice of career." Erik gave a halfhearted chuckle at this. "But I am sorry that people say such things about you."

Erik looked down. "We cannot blame them for seeing the truth about me."

"It isn't true."

The words came out of Christine's mouth in a rush and Erik's gaze snapped back to her. For a moment she both feared and hoped that he would hear the admission in her words. And then he reached up to touch her face, lightly running his thumb over the ridge of her cheek. It sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her lips part as she released a soft sigh.

"You are too good to me, Christine," Erik said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Christine realized how close his face was to hers, only inches away, and for a long moment neither of them moved. Her heart hammering in her chest, she held her breath as she met his eyes, waiting to see what he would do next, desperately hoping that he would lean closer until—

The shrill sound of laughter just down the hall jolted them apart, and when she glanced from the doorway back to him, he was standing, fidgeting restlessly.

"Perhaps we should return to the party," he said, his voice sounding agitated. She nodded, although that was the last thing she wanted, and they were heading back to the ballroom without another word.

Much to Christine's relief, they did not stay long after that. She did not think she could manage all of these social pleasantries when her mind was entirely stuck on what had just occurred, or nearly occurred, between her and Erik. It had likely only been a few seconds, but it had felt like minutes that they had sat on that bench perfectly still, so close together, and part of her had been certain that he was going to kiss her. She couldn't think about the fact that she had _wanted_ him to kiss her, that even now she couldn't stop her mind from drifting to what it would feel like to press her lips to his—that was all too much. That moment filled her thoughts, replaying in her mind over and over as she distractedly exchanged pleasantries with other guests. Even George and what he had said to her was forgotten for the moment. She was lost in her thoughts, only vaguely aware of everything going on around her except for Erik's presence beside her, which she felt keenly.

Finally they were able to make their excuses, but the relief was short-lived as they found themselves alone in the carriage. The air between them was thick with unspoken thoughts, and as much as Christine wanted to ask him what was going through his head, she could not find the words. He could simply be uncomfortable, she knew; if he did not feel anything for her beyond the friendship they had developed, then that moment might have simply been one of awkwardness and uncertainty for him.

The atmosphere around them now did not exactly feel awkward, though, but somewhere between awkward and anticipatory. It was as if they were both waiting to see what the other would do next, both uncertain of quite what the other wanted. Erik could not meet her eyes for more than a second or two during the drive home, and this only made it more difficult for Christine to read him. When they arrived, he helped her out of the carriage as he always did, and they walked inside slowly, not entirely comfortable but not entirely uncomfortable. For a moment, then, they stood in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

"You must be tired," Erik said after a second. "Would you like Louise to help you dress for bed?"

"No, it's late. There's no need to disturb her. I can do it myself." There was another moment of hesitation where Christine knew she ought to turn and go upstairs but felt like there was something more that Erik wanted to say. "Aren't you going to bed now, too?"

He shook his head. "I have some work that I must attend to first."

"Oh."

Erik met her eyes, the intensity of his gaze making her heart race. He looked at her just long enough to make her wonder again if he might kiss her, and there was a pang of disappointment when he finally took a step back. She may have imagined it, but she thought she could see disappointment in him, too.

"Goodnight, Christine," he said softly.

"Goodnight."

She turned and began to climb the stairs, and as she did she could hear his footsteps disappearing down the hall to his study. But she paused before she reached the top step, something tugging at her. He had wanted to kiss her—she was certain of it now. She had seen it in his posture, in the heat of his gaze and the way his mouth had twitched. He'd been thinking about it too. The assurance spurred on something in her, and before she knew what she was doing, she was slipping back down the stairs and heading for Erik's study.

The door was ajar when she reached it, but Erik didn't seem to hear her. He stood directly across from her, leaning on the front of his desk, his shoulders hunched and his eyes closed as he ran a hand through his hair. She took a timid step into the room, and he did hear her then, looking up at her in clear surprise. She met his eyes, and there was no more hesitation. Striding across the room, she came to stand before him and paused only for a second before gently taking his face in her hands and bringing her lips to his.

The kiss was brief, and for a breathless moment, they remained just barely parted, his lips hovering over hers. She waited for him to tense, to pull away, to have some kind of reaction, but he was still. But then his arms encircled her waist and his lips were on hers again, more firmly this time, and she was melting into him, her head spinning. Her lips met his again and again, her knees growing weak even as she longed for more of the embrace. Her hands remained cradling his face, while one of his snaked up her back, pulling her closer. It was frantic and shy and she wanted to live forever in this moment.

When they did pull apart enough for her to meet his eyes, Christine couldn't suppress a smile. His eyes were wide and the tips of his ears were red, and she could see the swift rise and fall of his chest. But the small, disbelieving smile that he gave her was what made her own smile broaden. She bit her lip, giddiness rushing through her.

"Goodnight." She couldn't think of anything else to say, but it didn't seem to bother Erik as his smile grew.

"Goodnight."

Turning and rushing from the room, Christine paused in the doorway to glance back at Erik, finding him watching her with a look that made her feel warm to her bones. She thought of that look as she returned to her room and prepared for bed, even when she knew that the adrenaline coursing through her would not allow sleep to come easily; she couldn't stop smiling.


	13. Chapter 13

Christine woke the next morning already thinking about the events of the previous night. The ball, that awful dance with George Wright, the uncertainty between Erik and her, and then finally that kiss. Her breath caught as she thought about kissing him, about how bold and reckless and wonderful it had felt. She supposed that there was no denying now that she felt for him, and although the recognition still left her with a vague sense of unease, kissing him had been too much to argue with. And he must feel for her, too. She hadn't imagined the way he had held her, the eagerness with which he'd kissed her back, the shy smile on his lips when she'd left him. No, he _must_ feel something.

She had no idea what any of this would mean for them—she could imagine that this was uncharted territory for them both, and it certainly wasn't something they had planned for. But here they were, and they would have to figure it out. The thought of what was to come made her stomach knot, but not entirely in a bad way. She pushed the thought from her mind, deciding that thinking too much about it would only paralyze her. There was nothing for her to do but go and see Erik now, to talk to him and try to gauge how he was feeling. She couldn't allow herself to think any further ahead than that.

Despite the fear that still threatened to grip her, she caught herself smiling as she dressed, lightly humming a cheerful little tune. There was a brightness to her face that she had not seen in a very long time. She dressed quickly, anticipation and anxiety rushing her actions, and her heart was racing by the time she made her way downstairs.

To her surprise, though, Erik was not in his study. The library was unoccupied as well, and the parlor had also been empty when she'd passed it. She supposed it was possible that he was still in his room, as it was fairly early in the morning, but it seemed unlikely—he'd risen well before her every day for the entirety of their time living together. She was lingering uncertainly in the parlor when Louise emerged, seeming surprised to find her already up.

"Mrs. Mason," she greeted. "Forgive me, I thought you would be in bed later after the party last night. Shall I have your breakfast prepared now?"

"No, Louise, that's fine," Christine replied distractedly. "Has Mr. Mason risen yet?"

"Yes, ma'am, he left the house a while ago. He asked me to tell you that he has been called away on business and does not know how late he will be kept away."

"I see." The world around her began to slow down again and she fought to keep her disappointment from her expression. "Did he say anything else? Or leave a note for me?"

"No, ma'am." Louise hesitated, and Christine gave her a small smile to assure her that any agitation she could see in her manner was not her fault.

"Thank you for letting me know, Louise."

The girl nodded and hurried off, leaving Christine to fully feel her heart sinking. Of course it was not unusual for Erik to be distracted by his work, and with opening night drawing ever closer, it wasn't unreasonable to think that he might be called away suddenly by some unexpected problem. But something about this left her with the distinct feeling that something was off, that he didn't wish to see her. Short of another fire, she struggled to think of anything that could require his attention so early in the morning, especially when the majority of the people in charge at the opera were likely still sleeping off the previous night.

But if he _had_ left to avoid seeing her, what did that mean?

Christine tried to pass her morning as if it was any other, although the book she had been perusing the day before struggled to hold her attention for more than a minute or two. Her thoughts continually drifted back to Erik. Perhaps he had left because he was uncomfortable with her, even disgusted. Perhaps she had misread everything horribly and he didn't feel anything for her, hadn't wanted to kiss her. As certain as she had been about this earlier that morning, doubt now sat like a rock in her stomach. It now seemed all too possible that she had ruined any closeness that had been between them and made a terrible fool of herself in the process. If that was the case, what kind of life would they have now? Erik would have to return eventually and they would continue to live together, continue to keep up the ruse of marriage. But what had been slightly awkward at worst before would certainly be downright painful now. He would understandably want to keep some distance between them, knowing as he did now that she was drawn to him in a way that he did not reciprocate.

Before she could stop the train of thought, she was seeing their quiet mornings together, their comfortably shared meals, their companionable walks, all of it disappearing. He would not want to see her more than he had to, and she could not blame him for that. But the thought of losing the most cherished parts of the little life they had created together made her throat tighten. She tried to tell herself that it would be no worse than going back to where they had begun, that she would again get used to spending her days without him. Perhaps it would even be for the best—in no time at all rehearsals would be starting, and then she would make her debut on the Metropolitan Opera stage, just like she had always dreamed of doing. She ought to focus on preparing, and if this meant fewer distractions for her, than it was surely a good thing. Soon she would hardly have time to even think of Erik.

The thought sounded hollow, even as she repeated it.

The afternoon came and Erik still did not return home. There was no note from him, no explanation, nothing to ease her worry, and so her thoughts ran wild. She found herself pacing the parlor, imagining every possible situation, each worse than the last. Erik hated her. Erik would insist on living entirely separate lives, coming together only when absolutely necessary if at all. Erik would simply never come home. Part of her knew that these worries were outlandish, that it was only her anxious imagination getting the better of her, and she tried to cling to this calm, rational part. It felt like clinging to debris in a stormy sea, though; her grip was constantly slipping and the waves kept crashing down on her harder and harder. She wished that she had never come to feel anything for Erik. She had been right to be wary and should have trusted that impulse that warned her there would only be pain ahead. It was rash foolishness that had made her kiss him. She should have fought against it harder. She should never have dropped her guard so much. This torturous day that felt like it was stretching into weeks was the price she'd always known she would pay.

It was when the sky began to darken outside that she actually began to worry about him. What if something had happened to him? Suppose he had gone to the opera house to check the construction and had been injured—he only ever went when he knew there would be few to no people in the building. Or suppose someone on the street had harassed him and had injured him, or worse… This was a train of thought that she put an immediate end to—it was too much to even consider the possibility that something serious had happened. She could barely quell the rising guilt at the thought that she could have spent the entire day stewing in her own hurt while something far worse happened to Erik. No, she told herself, he would soon be home, and no matter what else happened, she would at least know that he was safe.

For a long while she sat in the parlor and waited, a book open on her lap that she did not even attempt to read. She could hear the clock on the mantle ticking away the seconds. Perhaps she was just worn after spending the entire day in uncertainty and agitation, but her nerves had finally started to fade away, replaced by a kind of resignation. She would be here to meet him when he came home, whenever that might be. Whatever happened next would at least be preferable to this not knowing.

* * *

Erik was hiding, and he knew it. There was no denying it, really—he had risen before the sun after a short and futile attempt at rest and had slipped silently out of the house at dawn. The only explanation he had given to a very confused Louise, who had been lighting the fire in the parlor when he had attempted to make his escape unnoticed, was that he had an urgent business matter to take care of. She asked what she should tell Christine if she asked about him, and a pang of guilt had hit him hard. The vision of her crossing the room toward him and the breathless embrace they had shared had not left his thoughts for a moment. He couldn't guess at what she was feeling, what she was thinking, but he was sure she would be confused to wake up and find him gone. But the thought of facing her, of having to find out what she was thinking, was a paralyzing kind of fear that he was far too cowardly to face. So he'd told Louise to tell her that he did not know when he would be back, and then he'd rushed for the door as if being pursued.

The quiet streets, just barely beginning to come to life, had at least eased his nerves a little, and the walk to the opera house had kept the nervous energy coursing through him at bay. But his mind would not settle, and he could only hope that focusing on the opera for a while would take his thoughts off Christine. He spent the morning scouring the auditorium for faults in the construction, for any minor detail that could require a fix or a change—something he could solve. Then when it was time for the workers to arrive, he turned to exploring the more secluded parts of the opera house, searching backstage for any lingering signs of damage from the fire, making sure that every detail of the reconstruction was exactly as he had specified, despite the fact that he had already looked through everything several times before.

Even as he tried to convince himself that he was here for legitimate reasons, he could not make the statement ring true. In fact, it was probably fortunate that the inspection he was attempting was not actually required, as his focus was constantly drifting. Last night, he was reluctant to admit even to himself, was not the first time he'd imagined kissing Christine. The thought had crossed his mind before, but he had always forced it to be fleeting, passing it off as nothing. But then last night, as they had sat in the relative stillness of the Harrisons' conservatory, he had almost been able to imagine that her insistence in the falseness of George Wright's claims about them might mean that she did care for him. It had given him a jolt of hope that had stunned him, not only in its intensity but in its very presence. He had, after all, worked quite hard to convince himself that he did not _want_ Christine to care for him. But just for a moment the possibility had seemed real and it had been all that he wanted in the world, and her expression had been soft and expectant and he'd very nearly let the fantasy run away with him. He'd been unable to completely shake that feeling for the rest of the night, then, and when he'd looked up to find her standing in the doorway of his study, his heart had stopped.

It had been a mistake; he'd been a fool to allow himself such a slip. Things like this could only ever bring pain, and he had become so adept at sheltering himself from such pain. And there was so much at stake here. If his relationship with Christine turned sour or distant or ended altogether, he could lose his career, his livelihood, his… heart. And the only person who mattered to him. In the face of such a risk, who could blame him for requiring some time alone to clear his head and figure out what to do next?

Eventually he gave up the pretense of his inspection and made his way to his office. Fortunately for him, the room was now furnished enough that he could justify being in it, and he sat down heavily at the empty desk and let his head drop into his hands. This wasn't good. He wanted so badly for it to be good, for everything to be simple; he wanted to be an ordinary man falling in love under ordinary circumstances. Undoubtedly he would return home—he couldn't stay here forever—and Christine would say that it had all been a mistake, that she hadn't been thinking clearly, and things between them would become strained and uncertain. Or, a far worse possibility, it _would_ be good for a little while, and then it would fall apart as good things were bound to when it came to him, and the loss was certain to destroy him. Either way, the result was the same: he would lose the closeness they had come to share, the pleasant warmth that her smile always sent rushing through him, the deep comfort that she could instill in him simply by placing a hand on his arm. He would lose _her_, and the thought was too terrible to bear.

After his mother had died, during those horrible years in the boys' home, he'd decided that he would never lose anyone again, and the simplest way to go about that, he'd known, was to just not have anyone to lose. It had seemed easy enough at the time. The pain of his mother's sudden death and the guilt of how difficult the last years had been was enough deterrent alone. But then there were the other boys. Those who were kind to each other were either frightened of him or frightened to be associated with him. And those who were not kind… he had learned quickly to fight viciously enough to fend them off. That didn't stop their abuse entirely, but it at least lessened it. It wasn't long before he'd started to consider a day where he was left alone a victory, and he'd understood that he needed to live the rest of his life in more or less the same manner.

And now, as if he hadn't learned this lesson all those years ago, here he was: vulnerable and longing and frightened.

He allowed the day to pass in a haze that he was hardly aware of as he vacillated between reverie and worry. There was nothing to do but return home and face Christine, he knew, and he would simply have to brace himself for whatever came next. Avoiding it would make no difference. Still, he couldn't find the will to drag himself from his office until after it had grown dark. His feet felt like lead as he made the walk home, feeling very much like a condemned man walking to the scaffold. Whatever happened when he reached the house, it would lead to pain. He could not rebury the feelings he had developed for Christine, not after last night. And so, sooner or later, he'd be left heartbroken and desolate, and there was no way around it.

His steps slowed as he approached the house, and he thought of Christine inside, thought of the way her soft, warm lips felt against his and of the warm giddiness that the embrace had sent coursing through him, and any small amount of courage or resolve that he may have come to deserted him. He continued walking past the house and instead wandered aimlessly through the streets, not paying any particular attention to where he was. He walked until his legs grew tired and his feet ached, and then he continued walking until the sensations dulled to a vague discomfort. When he finally circled back to the house, too weary to do anything else but still buzzing with nervous energy, a glance at his watch informed him that it was nearing midnight. He sighed with relief at the realization that Christine would likely have gone to bed, and the conversation he'd been fearing would at least be delayed until morning. Slipping inside quietly, he found the house silent and dark, with only the flickering light from the fire in the parlor lighting the hall.

He'd only taken a few steps further inside when he stopped, catching sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Christine was half-reclined on the sofa, her legs pulled up beneath her and her head resting on her arm, her face relaxed in sleep. She was still fully dressed, and there was a pang of guilt in Erik's chest at the knowledge that she must have been waiting for him. The cowardly part of him wanted to continue upstairs, to let her sleep undisturbed. But he couldn't just leave her here.

"Christine," he said softly, not daring to reach out and touch her.

She stirred, scrunching her eyes before blinking drowsily. "Erik?" She sat up with a jolt, suddenly more awake. "Erik, are you all right? It's so late and you've been gone all day."

"Yes," Erik replied gently, guilt settling heavily in his stomach at her concerned expression. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry to have worried you."

His assurance only deepened the crease in her brow, and she looked away. "So you stayed away because of me," she said softly

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. She pressed on.

"Because of last night? Is that why you disappeared today?" Her voice held no anger—only anxiety and, he could almost imagine, a tinge of hurt. His chest constricted, and still he could not find the right words to assure her that she was not at fault for any of this, that it was all him, that this was exactly why she would do well to keep him at a distance. She met his eyes again, her gaze seeming to plead with him.

"Perhaps we should talk in the morning," he said, straightening as if to make for the stairs. "It's late."

"No," Christine said, the resolution in her voice stopping him. "No, I think we should talk now. We've always been honest with each other, haven't we? Let's be honest now."

After a second of hesitation, Erik sat down beside her. He had no idea what he would say to her, but she was right—they had always talked candidly, and he supposed he owed at least an attempt at candor to her now, despite the fact that every instinct was urging him to flee. "Very well."

She nodded. "I'll begin. I… I feel close to you, Erik. Last night I wanted to kiss you, and I convinced myself that you wanted it too, so I acted. But I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable, and I have been worrying all day about… about what this would mean for us, whether this would change things."

Erik drew in a shaky breath, his heart hammering at the admission. "You were not wrong," he heard himself saying softly.

Christine looked up at him, surprised and, he almost didn't dare to even think, hopeful. "No?"

He shook his head, struggling for the right words, fighting back the impulse to keep all of this buried. As dangerous as it was, didn't she deserve the truth from him? "I… I wanted that as well."

She gave an uncertain nod. "And now?"

"Now there isn't a thing that I want more in the world. And that… frightens me."

There was silence for a moment as the confession settled, and then Christine's voice came softly. "It frightens me too. What I feel for you."

The words struck him with force, and it was a second before he could recover himself enough to speak again. The fact that she felt _anything _for him was more than enough, but that she felt it forcefully enough to be frightened by it certainly spoke to the extent of that feeling. The knowledge sent a surge of disbelieving delight through him, but it was quickly overpowered by anxiety.

"Christine, you must understand that I—" he sighed. "I'm broken, I suppose. I am not the sort of person who can have close relationships with others. Perhaps I was at one point a long time ago, or perhaps I once had the potential to be, but any possibility of that is long gone now. So allowing these feelings to… to grow, or acting on them, would only lead to pain for both of us."

"Do you think that I am not also broken?" she replied, her voice soft but steady. "I have lost everyone I have ever loved—I certainly understand the risks of caring for someone. And while I… I cannot say that I _intended_ to feel this way now, I…" she paused, taking a breath before meeting his eyes. "I do not wish to deny it. Not if you feel the same."

Erik's pulse was quickening with each word, the sound of it pounding in his ears. She could not possibly mean that she wanted to act on her feelings, that she wanted any of this to progress. But her expression was earnest, her eyes wide and warm and vulnerable, and he had to suppress the urge to pull her to him, to promise that he would keep her from ever being hurt again. That was not a promise he could make, especially if he was to be any closer to her than he was now. He was ruinous; he did not know how to love or be loved, and he could not imagine that he had much of a capacity for either. Except he did love her. It was a word that he had desperately suppressed until now, but that was what this was. He loved her so much that it made him physically ache. Still, that did not change the damage that had been done over his lifetime. He was not the steady, safe person who would make it easy for her to care for him. He would only ever hurt her, and he couldn't allow her to think otherwise, as much as he might want her to.

"I wish—" his voice broke, and he sighed. "I wish that were possible, Christine. God, do I wish it were possible. But I would hurt you, don't you understand? It's all I know how to do. I have spent nearly my entire life working to keep others away, and I have become quite skilled at it. I would hurt you because avoiding pain myself is all I can do. And I cannot allow that to happen."

"And do I have no say?" she replied. "Am I incapable of deciding for myself what I want, what's worth the risk?"

"You don't know me like you may think you do," he told her. "The man that you have come to know hardly scratches the surface of what has happened to me and what I have done in my life, the things that are wrong with me."

"Then let me know." Christine's voice rose only slightly, but the crack in her steadiness took Erik by surprise. "Let me understand you. Give me a chance to care for you anyway."

"I would not even know where to begin."

She was silent for a moment, seeming to consider something. When she spoke, her words were barely more than a whisper. "You could show me your face."

Erik was shaking his head before she had even finished speaking, panic stirring in his stomach. It felt as if he was beginning to forget how to breathe. Christine appeared to sense his discomfort and shifted closer to him, gently laying a hand over his.

"Erik." Her voice was soft but held an insistence that was strong enough to pull him from the fog of terror that had started to settle over him. "I know that it is a lot to ask of you, and I do not wish to do anything that pains you. It is your choice to make. But I thought that… I thought that perhaps it might be a way to prove to you that I can care for you even if things are not perfect. I want to know you. I want to know your struggles and be here to comfort you, just as you have comforted and supported me."

He dropped his eyes to where their hands rested between them, his throat suddenly constricted. He wanted to tell her that she already did those things, that she comforted him simply by being beside him, that whatever it was that kept him wary and on-edge settled when she was near. But she continued before he could form the words.

"It wouldn't need to be tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. But if you could show me—" she held his gaze, her own gentle and warm, inviting him to imagine what she left unspoken. If she could see his face and still care for him, still want to be here with him… he almost couldn't even imagine what that would mean. Surely it would mean that she cared for him a great deal.

His shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched as his mind warred with itself. It was entirely beyond his comprehension, but some persistent, terribly stupid part of him wanted to show her; he wanted to give her a chance. If any human being deserved a chance, surely it was Christine. She'd shown him nothing but gentleness and earnestness for as long as he had known her. She had eased his worries and brought him comfort and, dare he say, happiness. There had never been anyone else of whom he could speak so highly, so perhaps she would not be like the others who ridiculed him or looked away in horror. But on the other hand, if her presence in his life was so precious, shouldn't he do everything in his power to ensure that it continued? Allowing her to see his face was horribly risky at best. Even someone as kind and compassionate as Christine had to have a limit. She would likely try to conceal her reaction, sure. Perhaps she would even go on living with him for a little while, doing her best not to let him see her disgust. The tension would still be there, though, and soon it would be too great for her to bear, and then she would be gone. And there _would_ be disgust, he was certain. Despite her best intentions, she wouldn't be able to help it. Even _he_ often felt a surge of disgust at the sight of his reflection, his deathly appearance like some horrible apparition appearing in the mirror. Even he avoided looking at his face as much as possible.

But Christine was looking up at him so tenderly, her silent entreaty making his heart stutter. Somehow, despite the cold rush of fear and the prickling of his nerves as every instinct warned him against it, he wanted to give her a chance. Giving her a slight nod, he began to bring his hands up to his face but quickly dropped them back into his lap, losing his nerve. She understood his intent, though, if the way her expression sobered was anything to judge by, and she gave him a slight nod in reassurance.

He considered asking for one more kiss first—a goodbye kiss, as she would undoubtedly never look at him the same way once she saw his face. But it would be dishonest of him to ask for such a thing now when he knew she would be so repulsed by him in a moment. He would have to be content with the memory of what had passed between them last night. He only wished that his mind had not been so clouded with shock and frantic desire, that the memory of those fleeting moments was sharper. Of course he had known as soon as she had left him alone and his mind had started to clear that he would never again feel the press of her soft lips; the impossibility of it had been obvious. Now, though, the pain of that knowledge was sharp as he faced the prospect of also losing her gentle affection, her soft smiles, even her presence. The thought was almost enough to make him change his mind. But no. He needed to do this. He wanted to do this, as insane as it was. That tiny part of him, that small voice in the very back of his mind that insisted on being stupidly hopeful, kept insisting that everything just might be okay, and the lure of that was impossible to bury entirely.

Closing his eyes, he brought trembling hands up to his face, and then he lifted away the mask.

For a moment all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. Then the realization of what he had just done, what he could not undo, hit him with force and he couldn't breathe. Cold dread settled over him as he waited for her to cry out or faint or run away. But there was no movement from beside him, not even a sharp inhale. After what could have been seconds or hours for all he knew, not knowing how she was reacting was beginning to seem worse than knowing. He was just contemplating opening his eyes, undoubtedly to be met with a look of mute horror on her face, when he felt her stir beside him. There was a light swish of silk as she shifted, and he froze, not even daring to take a breath.

A moment later, there was the feeling of fingertips running over his hollow cheek, and he flinched away instinctively before realizing that the touch had been gentle. Not quite able to process what this meant, he leaned forward, seeking the contact again. It came after a second, first the fingertips brushing his cheek, and then a slightly firmer touch running across his forehead and down his jaw, and finally a warm, soft palm cradling the side of his face. He grasped, then, that it was Christine—that Christine was _touching_ him—and his eyes flew open with a startled jolt. She was kneeling on the sofa so that her face was level with his, and he found that he could not look away from her eyes. They were gentle and compassionate and brimming with tears, and he could feel something inside of him coming loose.

Suddenly his breath was coming in wracking gasps and his shoulders were shaking violently and he was slumping forward as though every ounce of strength in him had been sapped in that second. Christine caught him and pulled him close, letting him press his horrible face into her shoulder as he wept, her arms wrapped securely around his boney frame. His arms were around her, too, although he couldn't remember doing it, and he clung to her as if his life depended on it. His thoughts drifted to those nights in Newport, which now seemed like a lifetime ago—nights when she had slept beside him and he had wanted very much to curl up against her, to bury his face in her hair and be engulfed in her warmth. And now here he was, having practically pulled her onto his lap, crying shamefully for reasons that were so numerous that they blurred together indistinguishably.

But she was here. She was warm and soft and the faint smell of roses clung to her, and she was perfect, and how could he let these precious moments of closeness pass in a haze of feverish tears? The thought seemed to give him a foothold on regaining his composure, and after a minute the tears had subsided, his breathing had started to slow, and he was left trembling weakly in her arms. It was only then that he noticed the way her breaths caught, and he pulled away just enough to see her face; she was crying too, her cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. Before he could stop himself, he reached up to wipe the tracks away, and she covered his hands with hers, holding them in place.

"Christine, I—" Erik's voice came out hoarsely and he realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He wanted to thank her for holding him, to apologize to her for causing her pain, to tell her that if she wanted to leave he would understand, to beg her to stay. She took a shuddering breath and spoke before he could.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, "for everything that's happened to you. For the pain you've endured. You're a good man, and you have not deserved any of it. Your face doesn't change that. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

His breath caught and tears pricked at his eyes again, and he swallowed hard, hoping that his voice would not be too unsteady. "Are you certain?"

"I am."

Christine held his gaze unwaveringly before reaching out to take his face in both hands. His hands tremblingly slipped from her cheeks until his fingers were carded into her hair, now only loosely held in its arrangement. She smiled a little, and he might have smiled too if he had been able to recover even half his senses, but everything was still blurry and not quite adding up and he could only look at her in absolutely awe. Then she spoke again.

"I'd like to kiss you."

The words were only a faint, tremulous whisper, and for a moment he could only stare at her, certain that he had misheard her. But she looked at him expectantly, her thumbs gently stroking his face, and he gave a small, stiff nod.

This time, even through the muddle of emotions, he knew to savor the sweet anticipatory flutter in his chest as she leaned closer to him and the heart-stopping pressure of her lips against his. She kissed him slowly, her hands never leaving his face, and it was all he could do not to begin weeping again. It was soft but certain—reassurance that she knew exactly what she was doing. Erik wished he could say the same as he leaned into her; this was all too much to comprehend. But she was real enough, and she was here cradling his bare face, kissing him with impossible tenderness, and for now that was all he needed to be certain of.

Even when they parted, Christine made no move to stand, and Erik was grateful, as he wasn't sure his legs would hold him up. Instead they sat, their hands entwined between them, talking in low voices. He told her about his life, about the sting of guilt that still lingered over his mother's death, about what he'd suffered in the boys' home, about the harsh and desperate years after. Tears glistened on Christine's cheeks as he spoke, but she remained beside him, her grip on his hands as strong as it had been when she'd woke crying in Newport. His body ached with exhaustion and emotion, but he couldn't think of leaving her side. She spoke to him softly, soothing him when he grew agitated, letting him speak until the sickening weight of his life began to lift a little, telling him of her own loneliness and grief. They talked and held each other and she kissed him again and again, covering his face with kisses before meeting his lips again.

It wasn't until dawn, when his eyes were almost unbearably heavy and they could hear the stirrings of someone building a fire in the kitchen, that they finally stood and shuffled upstairs. Her hand remained in his until they reached her door, and she stretched up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him again, and she gave him a smile that, though tired, brightened her red-rimmed eyes. This time he could return it, feeling lighter than he could remember ever feeling before, and then she slipped into her room. He returned to his own room in a daze, not expecting sleep to come easily, as much as he felt he needed it. His mind, although sluggish, would not quiet, and his body tended to fight sleep, instinct arguing that it would leave him vulnerable. Still, he felt calm and his limbs were heavy, and Christine's presence just down the hall somehow seemed closer than before. He didn't bother changing out of his clothes or turning down the covers, letting himself fall unceremoniously onto the bed.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	14. Chapter 14

Christine was surprised, after the months of anticipation and careful preparation, how calm she was when she returned to the Met to join her first rehearsal. The nerves in her stomach the night before had not been the crippling kind that she had feared would leave her trembling and unable to do more than squeak out a few notes; they were expectant and eager. She'd been waiting so long for this, and it hadn't been all that long ago that she'd been beginning to think her one chance had been snatched away from her and she would never see so much as a rehearsal with the chorus. But now here she was, stepping into the rehearsal room with more sureness than she had felt in months.

It was not uncommon, she knew, for the prima donna to eschew rehearsals almost entirely in favor of performing the role as she saw fit, ensuring that she would shine as brightly as possible onstage. Christine had not been offered this indulgence, and she was grateful for this. As new to this as she was, she could not imagine taking on the role with only her own preference and vanity to guide her.

She was greeted by the director, a Monsieur Castelmary, who wore a kind expression and spoke in a warm baritone. Then there were to two Polish brothers who would be playing Faust and Mephistopheles, and whom she found pleasantly jovial. The pretty young woman who stood shyly off to the side was Signorina Guercia who, like Christine, would be making her debut. There was a pleasantness about everyone that quickly put her at ease. A small part of her had been worried that she would be an outcast—that the others would look down on her lack of experience and would not welcome her into their own world. But if Christine had felt a slight tinge of nerves when she had entered the room, they dissipated quickly as she fell into the rehearsal, the pleasure of singing with others and the excitement of the performances ahead of them far outweighing any lingering anxiety.

During the brief moments when her mind did wander from her current surroundings, she thought of Erik, just down the hall in his office. They had arrived at the building together that morning, and the one stab of hesitation that she'd felt had come at the realization that, for the first time in weeks, she would be spending the better part of the day without him.

That night when they had sat up talking, when she'd first seen his face, now felt like years ago, although in reality only a couple of weeks had passed. She'd gone to bed feeling both lighter and heavier—her knowledge of his past and the abuse he'd suffered was a new weight, but it was balanced by the understanding that he trusted her, that he felt as close to her as she did to him. It was early in the afternoon when she finally rose the next day, still a little worn from the previous night but anxious to see Erik again. She'd gone downstairs to find him in his study, and he'd met her with a shy smile. Closing the door behind herself, she'd crossed the room and had taken his face in her hands, asking if she might remove the mask that was back in place. He'd agreed, although his nerves were clear, and once the mask was off she was quick to reassure him with a gentle kiss. She could not deny that his was not a pleasant face to look at, pallid and deathlike as it was, but she had a feeling that it would become pleasant to her as it became more familiar—it did, after all, belong to Erik, _her_ Erik.

The days that had followed had been uncertain but exciting. Every move that either of them made felt cautious, as if they were each waiting to see what the other would do before proceeding. Erik could send a thrill through her simply by reaching out and taking her hand, which he did with great tentativeness at first, only daring to let their fingers brush until she gave him a encouraging smile. It was only very gradually that he'd grown more certain, and as much as she'd tried to assure him that she welcomed the touch, he was still cautious. The one indulgence he seemed to allow himself was a kiss goodnight. At the end of that first day, he'd kissed her forehead, his cool lips just barely brushing her skin. She'd smiled, her heart skipping at the shy gesture, and she'd leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his lips in response. The next night he'd dared to kiss her on the cheek, and the following night, when she'd seen the nervous way his eyes had darted to her lips, she'd stepped closer and tilted her face up invitingly, and he'd very carefully lowered his lips to hers. The kiss had been chaste, and she'd seen his cheeks reddening when he'd pulled away—it surprised her how expressive his face actually was after months of learning to read him in other ways. But she'd smiled warmly up at him, and he had kissed her every night since then, still shyly but finally beginning to gain a little more certainty.

As cautious as he was with her, he made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed being close to her, and she was more than happy to assure him that she enjoyed it too. She finally allowed herself the little touches that she'd been tempted to make for a while, whether it was resting a hand on his forearm or entwining their fingers or reaching up to straighten his cravat when it became askew. These little actions were always rewarded with an endearingly shy smile that made her feel wonderfully warm.

With so much to occupy her thoughts, the approaching rehearsals had started worrying her less and less. She could see the great improvement she'd made since beginning her lessons with Erik, and as rehearsals grew nearer, she realized that she felt ready for them. By the time their carriage had pulled up in front of the opera house that morning, she'd felt eager and steady. Erik had offered to go in with her to introduce her to the director himself, and when she told him she thought she should go in alone—she didn't want to look like she was receiving preferential treatment as his wife—his smile had grown.

When they were given a short break, though, she was quick to make her way up to his office, eager to be with him again even if it was only for a few minutes. Perhaps it was only because they had spent so little time apart recently, but just the past couple of hours had left her bursting with things to tell him. She wanted to recount every moment of the rehearsal to him, to tell him about how friendly everyone was and how strange it felt to be singing with anyone other than him and how thrilling she found the whole thing. Her feet carried her quickly to the closed door of his office, but when she knocked softly, no answer came. She knocked again, and when there was still no answer, she cautiously pushed the door open.

"Erik?"

He was sitting at his desk, his shoulders hunched in concentration and his mouth pressed into a firm line, and he looked up in surprise at the sound of her voice.

"Christine, is something the matter? I was not expecting you until—" he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it, evidently surprised by the hour it displayed. "Ah. So this _is_ your midday break."

"Are you very busy?" Christine asked, her brow furrowing. "I can leave you to your work if you can't afford a distraction right now."

"On the contrary, there is nothing I would like more than a distraction," he replied as he stood, his movements a little stiff. "Especially if that distraction is a visit from you."

Smiling, Christine stepped fully into the office and closed the door before crossing the room to him. She knew he would not want to remove the mask in such a public place—even at home, he would only remove it when he was certain a member of the staff would not be likely to enter the room without warning—but she took his face in her hands anyway before gently kissing his lips. He leaned into her slightly, letting out a small, contented sigh, and when she pulled away enough to meet his eyes, she offered him a sympathetic smile.

"Has it been a very difficult morning, then?"

"I suppose it's been no more difficult than I ought to have expected," he said running a hand through his hair. "But there is much to do and the board has been pushing back on every minor suggestion I make, and being here rather than in my study just… makes it all feel more real. It's as if the importance of putting on a successful season is hitting me doubly as hard now."

"Oh Erik," Christine sighed, letting her hands drop down to his shoulders where she rubbed light, soothing circles. Even as thin and angular as his frame was, she could feel how the muscles were knotted. "I'm sorry. I can only imagine the kind of pressure you're under. I hope you're not making it worse for yourself."

He let out a small chuckle as he relaxed into her touch. "I'm afraid it's my nature to make things more difficult for myself. And thinking about all that I stand to lose if this season does not go well is proving an effective way to do that."

"But it _will_ go well," she told him, making her voice sound absolutely certain despite the fact that the same worry had gripped her more than a few times. "You mustn't think otherwise. I know your mind, Erik, and I am convinced that you're incapable of making anything other than beauty if that is what you intend to do. The programming is perfect. You have selected wonderful artists who will fulfill your vision. I am certain that even the renovations you have insisted on will be lauded. The auditorium will be much improved. And others will have no choice but to recognize your brilliance."

Giving her a weak smile, he reached out to brush a stray curl off her forehead and allowed his fingers to trail lightly down the side of her face. "I am honored, Christine, truly, by your opinion of me. I do not know how I came to earn it, but I treasure it."

"I can assure you that my opinion is not unduly earned. But in case you think that I am being too generous, I will also tell you what will happen if, for some reason beyond my understanding, things do not go well." She spoke lightly and was gratified to see his smile grow warmer. "We can leave the city and pursue an opera company elsewhere. Perhaps we could even go to some European capitol. Imagine living in the midst of so much art and culture. Or perhaps we could move to the country and live peacefully on a quiet little farm where we could keep to ourselves and spend our evenings sitting on the porch, singing to the stars."

Erik closed his eyes, his smile wavering for a moment. "Do you truly mean that you would… remain with me?"

The quiet wonder that crept into his words sent a pang of sadness through Christine, and she took a step forward to wrap her arms around him, pulling him close and pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He hesitated for a second, but then she felt his arms carefully encircle her, and after another moment his grip tightened and he held onto her more securely.

"Of course I would remain with you," she said, her voice gentle but certain. "Whatever else happens, you do not need to worry about that."

"It's what I worry about most of all," he murmured. "Before I met you, the worst that could happen was that I would lose the position. And that seemed bad enough—being denied the chance to put my talent and my skill to good use, being denied an artistic legacy. Then, the possibility of having that influence to assert and the integrity of my art outweighed any fear I might have had about failing. But now you're wrapped up in this too. Your career is at risk along with mine—if you had not allowed me to promote you, you might have made your way through the ranks until someone much more in favor than me championed you. I cannot imagine that the board would be happy to retain too many of my choices if I am removed from my position. And if that happens, I may not be able to offer you the comfortable, secure life I promised you either. Without that security and without your career, the two things I promised you when you married me, why would you choose to remain with me?"

"Because I love you."

The words left Christine's mouth before she was even aware that she meant to speak them. When she realized that she had spoken them, she braced herself for the self-consciousness that was sure to follow, but it didn't come. Erik pulled back a little to look at her, his eyes wide and his mouth opening and closing without actually forming any words, but she still only felt that it had been right to say it. It was true, and if her actions were not enough to instill this knowledge in him, then she would tell him outright.

"I love you," she said again. "Erik, I may have agreed to marry you because of what you could offer me, but those ceased to be my reasons for staying here some time ago. I believe wholly that you deserve great success, but if it doesn't come to fruition, I will still be here with you."

Erik gave a weak nod before slowly bring his gaze up to meet hers again. "I love you too." The words were rushed and shaky, and his lips twitched into a sad smile. "God, Christine, I love you so much I've been sure it would be my ruin. I don't know how to tell you what I feel for you or how to apologize to you for feeling it."

She shook her head, wanting to insist to him that there was no need to apologize, that his love was not the curse he seemed to imagine it was and that his admission now made her dizzy with joy. But she knew he was ready to brush away such words, and so instead of arguing, she lifted herself up onto the tips of her toes and pressed her lips soundly to his. He returned the kiss eagerly, almost frantically, holding her so tightly that her feet nearly lifted off the ground. She cradled his masked face, wishing very much that when she pulled away she would be met with the face of the man she loved rather than the cold, blank surface. Still, when they did part, both grinning sheepishly and breathing heavily, she was gratified to see how his eyes were lit up, how a flush had spread up his neck to the tips of his ears, likely mirroring the rosiness of her own features.

"Please try not to worry yourself too much," she said softly. "You deserve greatness. But whatever comes, we'll face it together."

Erik closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. "Thank you."

"And I'm here for you now, too," she added. "If I can do anything to help you, I hope you'll tell me. I want to help."

"Christine," he breathed, his lips forming her name with soft reverence. "I believe you have done more for me just this morning than you can imagine."

Smiling, she leaned in to kiss him again, her head swimming with the unexpected and wonderful revelation that he loved her. She supposed she had known without him telling her, but to actually hear the words, to share this moment with him, was another thing entirely.

"You ought to get back to rehearsal," Erik said, his voice gentle but regretful. "I've kept you too long already."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "But I'll be back."

He pressed a final, soft kiss to her forehead, and then she was hurrying off, returning to rehearsal with a new lightness and a smile she could not quite contain.

* * *

The days after that passed faster than Christine could follow. Rehearsal days were full and long. Erik would always drive with her to the opera house, and she would kiss him goodbye before they parted ways, always feeling a little giddy at the easy affection. Then she would lose herself in rehearsals for the following hours. It was exhilarating and exhausting all at once. Soon they moved from the rehearsal room to the stage, working with the newly finished sets and looking out onto the now nearly completed auditorium. With every rehearsal, it became easier to imagine the opening night performance, and this only made the days more thrilling. A few times, she glimpsed Erik sitting in some unobtrusive seat in the boxes, apparently unnoticed by the others, and her heart would race at the knowledge that he was watching.

The days when there were no rehearsals were slower but no less pleasant. Erik would be gone most of the time, but when he wasn't they would continue their lessons; these were Christine's favorite days. When he was kept away, attending to opera business, she would often pass the morning visiting with Meg or Dora, and on one or two occasions, even Lydia Harrison was kind enough to call on her. Sometimes she would spend the day alone, and even this she found she didn't mind—in the midst of all the excitement of rehearsals, the occasional quiet day didn't feel so lonely.

The best part of all of these days, though, was the evening. She and Erik would sit together in the parlor, settled comfortably on the sofa, the blazing fire in front of them fighting off the chill of the rapidly approaching winter. Some nights they would talk, their voices low and their hands entwined between them. That day in his office had eased some of his worries, but there were still plenty to plague him. He told Christine about some of his interactions with the board, which seemed to be growing tenser every day, but she was certain that there was more he was trying to shield her from. This suspicion always stirred an uneasy feeling in her stomach, but she chose not to press him to tell her more, instead doing what she could to reassure him that everything would work out. She was glad that he was at least talking as much as he was, and if things were more precarious than he let on, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Other nights, they wouldn't talk at all. They would recline together, her head resting on his chest as she let the warmth of his body and the steady thrum of his heartbeat soothe her. One of his hands would rest on her back and the other would play idly with the curls that had come loose from their arrangement, his elegant, slender fingers sinking deep into her hair. The touch was so gentle and relaxing that she would nearly drift off, and then she would feel his lips press to the top of her head and her heart would flutter, and she would shift until she could meet his lips. They would melt into soft, slow kisses; it was only during times like these when Erik would never hesitate, never pull away to look at her uncertainly as if he couldn't believe she would want to be with him like this. At least during nights like this, things were easy. It was just them, and there was nothing else to think about.

And so the days passed quickly but comfortably, usually leaving Christine in a cheerful, contented mood. She was in just such a mood when she stepped out of the opera house one afternoon after a pleasant day of rehearsal. The sun had already set, and there was a heavy wetness to the air that hinted at the approach of snow. The dampness quickly seeped through the wool barrier of her coat and she shivered, pulling the garment more tightly around herself, but her spirits were high as she set off toward home. Rehearsals had been going well and opening night was hardly more than a week away, which seemed both impossibly near and painfully far off. Her nerves were not entirely steady when she thought about her debut, but she had determined that the flutter in her chest was more eager than nervous. And, of course, once opening night had passed and received the praise it undoubtedly would, perhaps Erik would be able to relax.

He had been running himself ragged these past weeks, and she knew he would only begin to allow himself any real rest when he was certain the season would not be entirely poorly received. Even now, he was uptown for a meeting even though, he'd assured her that morning, he would much rather have been driving home with her like they usually did. Christine didn't mind the solitary walk today, though. The chill was invigorating and she liked the way the wind stung her cheeks, and even after a long rehearsal it felt good to stretch her legs like this.

When the carriage pulled up beside her, there was a brief moment of hope that Erik might have finished his business early and had come to meet her. But even in the dim light, she quickly realized that this was not Erik's carriage. The door swung open as she started to walk past, and she could barely make out the figure inside.

"Mrs. Mason, what a cold day it is for a walk. May I offer you a ride somewhere?"

She recognized the voice of George Wright at the same moment that she made out his face, and it took effort not to sigh audibly in disappointment.

"That is a kind offer, but I'm only on my way home, and I do not find it too cold."

"I insist," George pressed. "It wouldn't do for you to catch cold right before the big night, now, would it?"

Christine doubted a short walk in the cold would leave her feeling the least bit ill, but she worried that she could not argue against George's offer again without coming off as rude. And Erik did not need another social relationship to be concerned about right now—even if George himself was not part of the Metropolitan Opera's leadership, the men who were were friendlier with him than with Erik, and Christine suspected that George was a man petty enough to injure another's career over a small slight. She could at least take comfort in the fact that it would be a short ride.

She tried not to notice how satisfied George looked when she climbed into the carriage.

"Surprised to see you out alone after dark," he commented once she had given her address to the driver and the carriage had lurched into motion.

"It's not all that late," she replied simply. "I had a rehearsal this afternoon."

"I see. And your husband did not care to drive you home?"

"He was called uptown unexpectedly."

George hummed thoughtfully, and when she did not ask him to voice his thoughts, a few seconds passed in silence. He let out a small, annoyed sigh, then, and Christine pressed her lips together to keep herself from laughing at the absurd ego of this man.

"Well," he said eventually, his tone revealing his irritation at not having been asked to speak further, although he was now smiling at her again. "I should think that Mason would be well-advised to take better care of his pretty wife. Otherwise she might find her affections falling elsewhere once her career has taken off."

"He needn't worry about that."

George chuckled at this. "I really do admire your dedication, you know. Though I suppose that, as an actress, you do know how to play a part."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Christine knew that there was likely no use in trying to argue with him and had hoped that her terse replies might be enough to put an end to the conversation. George seemed intent on drawing her out, though.

"It must be quite tiring living like that, having to keep up that pretense. I can't imagine it would be pleasant under most circumstances, but especially not with your choice of husband. If you should ever find yourself in need of some… _better_ company, I should be happy to pay you a visit."

These last words were spoken lowly, making the suggestion clear. For a moment Christine sat in stunned silence, not entirely sure what reply she could make to a man who was either quite shameless or quite delusional about his own appeal. The carriage gave a little jolt, then, and she realized that they had reached her destination. Part of her mind urged her to exit the carriage quickly, without a word or a look back; there was no dignity in this situation, and perhaps it would be best simply to remove herself as quickly as she could. But she had the distinct feeling that George would be persistent in his interest in her, and it was perfectly clear now that that was what this was. Perhaps an answer wouldn't entirely dissuade him, but it might at least discourage him a little.

Squaring her shoulders, she gave him a sweet smile and saw the immediate triumph in his expression. "Mr. Wright, what an unexpected offer," she cooed. "Unfortunately I must decline, as even if I _was_ in an unhappy marriage, it would take much more than that to make me desire the company of a man as odious as you. Good night."

She paused only long enough to see his expression begin to turn to one of confusion, and then she let herself out of the carriage and walked quickly up to the house, laughter already bubbling up in her as the situation began to feel oddly ridiculous.

Erik was less amused than she was when she related the occurrence to him later that evening, but she had started laughing again, unable to suppress it at the thought of George Wright, of all people, propositioning her, and what he must think of her, and the look that had been starting to form on his face when she had so curtly rejected him. This seemed to relax Erik a little, and soon even he was unable to hide a wry smile.

"I ought to beat him senseless for having the audacity to be so crass with you," he muttered, not entirely ready to match Christine's levity.

She gave him a gentle smile and, taking his hand, raised it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. "It would not be worth the damage to your hands."

"But it would be satisfying." It was as much of an argument as he could make, clearly softening to her touch like he was. "You'll tell me if he bothers you again?"

"I will. I promise." She hesitated for a moment, wanted to say more but needing to find the right words. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"You do know that, even if it had been someone other than George Wright, someone more agreeable, I… well, I do not desire any man's attentions but yours. And I never will."

Her words had their intended affect, Erik's shoulders relaxing and the last traces of agitation leaving his expression. "And I will never desire anyone's attentions but yours."

Tilting her face up to his, she smiled as he gently pressed his lips to hers, the touch shy and tender. No, she could not imagine ever wanting anyone but him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi, folks! Thanks so much for reading and for all the lovely comments you've left me these past few weeks. I'm so glad you've been enjoying the story—I've loved working on it so much. Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter. I've been fortunate enough to be able to visit my family for the past few days and haven't had a chance to get this posted. I hope you all are staying healthy and safe. Stay tuned for the final chapter next week!**

* * *

The nearly freezing rain was coming down hard when Christine arrived at the opera house late in the afternoon on the day of its grand opening, and she was grateful that she only had to make a short dash from the carriage to the entrance. She was so full of excitement and anxiety that she felt as though she could jump out of her skin. After all these months, all these _years_, tonight was the night she would finally step out on stage and sing for an audience. The fact that she was making her debut on stage as a lead, and on such an important night, doubled the jitteriness that seemed to come from eagerness and terror equally. She had hardly known what to do with herself all day and had spent much of her time restlessly wandering the house without even Erik to distract her—he had left for the opera house early that morning to make sure a mess of last-minute issues were attended to. Even if he had been home, she knew it was likely that his nervousness would only have fed into her own. She wanted to go and find him now, to make sure that he had not completely broken down during the day and to give him what reassurance she could, but he had insisted that she focus on preparing herself for tonight. He would come to see her before she went on, he'd promised, but she should not trouble herself over him. Tonight would be one of the most important nights of her life, and she ought to focus on making sure she was thoroughly ready.

And so she made her way to her dressing room, a lush, comfortable room that felt far too grand for her. It was the kind of room that was meant for prima donnas, for artists who sang with companies all over the world to great acclaim. By all rights, she should have been in one of the plain, shared dressing rooms with the other women in the chorus; most of them still had more experience performing than she did. When Erik had first taken her into the dressing room, she'd told him she felt like a fraud, laughing a little to try to cover the real ripple of doubt it sent through her. He'd assured her that she shouldn't feel that way, of course, and she had grown a little more used to the idea of inhabiting such a space, but it still felt a little bit like she was intruding, like the room belonged to a great diva and not to her.

Despite this, part of her was thankful to have the comfortable, quiet room now; her nerves were such that, if she had been sharing a room with other girls and had been expected to join in on the friendly chatter, she might have become so overwhelmed that she'd simply collapse. As it was, she could work on collecting herself and preparing her voice in solitude, without noise or distraction, and that was about all she felt she could manage.

She went through her usual warm-ups with more precision than normal, preparing her voice for the night with great care, before turning her attention to the libretto. She knew it well by now but studied it anyway, determined to see that each word was perfectly engrained in her memory, turning each one over in her mind and recalling the meticulous work she and Erik had done on her pronunciation. The French that had felt awkward in her mouth a few months ago now fell smoothly from her lips. Shortly after she had completed her review, her dresser arrived to help her change into her costume. The cream-colored gown that the dresser carried in with her had been made especially for Christine and fitted snugly over her corseted waist, very much in the modern fashion, but Christine loved it for the tabs along the bottom edge of the bodice and the little puffs in the sleeves—the bits that made her feel like she was stepping into another time, into a fairytale. Once she was dressed, her hair was arranged into a neat braid that fell long down her back, and she rouged her cheeks and lips.

Her transformation in Marguerite complete, Christine was left alone again, and for a moment she could only sit and marvel at her reflection. On the dressing table in front of her were several little arrangements of flowers, from the managers and the director, and one from dear, sweet Dora. The most extravagant among them was an arrangement of brilliant red roses, and she'd known without needing to look at the card that they were from Erik. The blossoms framed the image of her in the mirror like a miniature garden, and as she looked at the image she couldn't help but expect it to fade away before her eyes, for all of this to have been a dream. It was completely impossible that she could actually be sitting here. Soon the orchestra would be seated and the conductor would take up his position, and she would be able to hear the first scenes of the opera, and then she would be on stage, too, and none of it seemed real. It was simultaneously too good and too utterly terrifying to be true.

Her reverie was interrupted by a light knock at the door and a familiar voice gently calling her name, and she felt the grin spread across her face as relief washed over her.

"Come in," she called, and then Erik was there with her, and the weight of everything else lifted.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, just taking her in, a warm smile tugging up his lips. He wore his fine black suit with the white silk waistcoat, and though Christine couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be a slight tiredness to his posture, she found him quite dashing. As he stepped into the room and closed the door, she stood from her dressing table and went to him in a rush, suddenly unable to think of anything but being near him. Between her desire to be with him for the sake of her own comfort and her desire to be there to comfort _him_, his presence after a day of separation was a balm to her spirit. Her arms were around him before he had even fully turned to face her, but in a flash he had clasped her to him, holding her as tightly as if they had been parted for weeks and not mere hours.

"You look so lovely." His lips were near her ear and he spoke softly, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine. "You're perfect."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "I'm so excited and so abjectly frightened I hardly know what to do with myself. And I haven't been able to stop worrying about you all day."

"There is no need to worry about me," he told her, although the heaviness with which he leaned on her suggested that it had been a trying day. "My work is over, at least for tonight. All I have to do is enjoy the performance and suffer through a bit of small talk. You're the one with the work still ahead of you."

"But you've worked yourself absolutely ragged. And I know you must be anxious about tonight."

He pulled away from her a little then, taking her hands and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I do not want to trouble yourself about me tonight—there will be time for that later, if you must trouble yourself at all. I want you to enjoy every moment of tonight."

"You ought to enjoy it, too," she said. "As much as you can, at least. This is the product of all your hard work."

Letting his forehead drop to rest against hers, he let out a small sigh. "I will enjoy it much more when all of this is over and we can return home."

"Are you very tired?" she asked gently, though the answer was obvious.

He hummed in confirmation. "But I am certain that seeing you on stage tonight will revive me."

"I hope so. And I hope that the audience will receive my performance half as kindly as I know you will."

"They will."

Christine smiled; he'd always said that with complete confidence, and even after all the pressure that had been put on him, even now when they were minutes away from the performance that would set the tone for the entire season and that could very well end his career, that confidence didn't falter.

"Let's not think about it," she said decidedly. "Or the board, or anything else. Tonight I'll sing for you and only you, and then we'll celebrate the culmination of all our hard work and not worry just yet about what anyone else thinks."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea."

Leaning in to close the rest of the small distance between them, she gently pressed her lips to his, warmth blooming in her chest at the feeling of his soft smile as he returned her kiss. It was easy, then, to block everything else out, to imagine that the two of them were the only people in existence. For a moment she was certain that she had nothing to worry about, not because she was sure that tonight would go well or that she would be well received, but because this seemed to be the only thing that really mattered. As long as Erik was by her side, as long as she could bask in the deep comfort of his arms around her, the rest didn't matter so much. Maybe they really would move abroad and seek out an opera company that was more open to Erik's forward-thinking taste, as she had suggested to him weeks ago when rehearsals had only been beginning, or maybe they would move to the country and live a quiet, modest life. Or maybe all of this would go just as well as they had hoped, and she would be a star and he would be the genius breathing new life into the Metropolitan Opera. Any of those situations could make a perfectly happy life for them, and Christine felt the last remnants of fear fade away as she thought this.

Erik's thoughts must have followed a similar path, and she felt him relax in her arms, the tension releasing from his shoulders even as his arms tightened around her. Christine was aware of her head growing quiet pleasantly light as she kissed him, her pulse quickening and her breathing with it. As firmly as she was pressed to him now, she wanted to be closer. She wanted to kiss him until both their worries were gone forever. But she knew it wouldn't do for her to begin her performance as Marguerite with swollen lips and the quite unmaidenly flush she could feel coloring her cheeks. So she reluctantly pulled away.

"I should let you finish getting ready," Erik said softly, although her remained close enough to her that his lips almost brushed hers as he spoke, and he made no move to step away.

"And you should go take your seat and receive the first of your congratulations. The opera house looks wonderful, and everyone knows how much of that is your doing."

It was true—tonight the Metropolitan Opera looked brighter and grander than it ever had. She had only had a few glimpses of the lobby, the auditorium, the luxurious halls that had been quiet when she'd passed through them but were now filled with people, but even then it had been easy to see just how brilliantly everything had come together.

"Your compliments are enough for me." He pressed one more kiss to her lips, this one lingering but gentle. "You'll be magnificent, Christine."

"Your compliments are enough for me," she echoed. "I love you, Erik."

"I love you."

Even after he'd slipped out of the room, Christine remained standing where she was for a moment, her eyes closed as she allowed herself a quiet moment to memorize the sweetness of his lips against hers. He was her husband, and they loved each other, and tonight could be the beginning of a dream career for both of them. None of it seemed real. If someone had tried to tell her that this would happen a year ago, she would never have believed it. She could barely believe it now. But here she was. In just a few minutes she would hear the opening notes of _Faust_, and it would feel like the beginning of everything.

* * *

Christine's nerves did not return after Erik's visit to her dressing room. They did not return when she was told it was time to make her way to the stage, or even when she took those first steps from the dimness of the wings into the bright stage lights. She was so entirely focused on the music, on remembering the staging, on arranging her face into just the right expression, that she barely registered the audience stretching out into the vast darkness in front of her. She imagined that she could feel Erik's gaze on her, though, and the thought sent a thrill through her

Then it was time for the _Jewel Song_, and she drifted around the stage dreamily as she sang, dazzled by her newly ornamented reflection in the little hand mirror. The music swept her up like it always did, and she let her voice run lightly and coquettishly over the notes that had become so familiar to her. When her voice rose in her victorious final notes, her spirits rose with them, and she could feel herself beaming with the joy that coursed through her. The applause came as soon as her voice cut off, and for a moment she was disoriented, unable to hear the last notes from the orchestra. And then she realized that the shouts and applause were for her, and her breath caught and her face grew warm with embarrassment and pleasure. There were shouts for an encore, but she subtly motioned to the conductor that they should continue—this was only her first night and she was certain she did not have the right to perform an encore, and there was plenty for her left to sing anyway. The conductor, a kindly Italian man who was making his own debut tonight, nodded his understanding but, giving her a warm smile, allowed the applause to continue a few moments more.

Then came her scene with Faust, and her mind drifted back to the first time Erik had sung this part with her. All of that uncertainty as she was beginning to love him but not wanting to love him—it was no wonder singing with him had made Marguerite's part feel so real and alive. She let the memory seep into her voice as she sang now, her notes sometimes sweet and sometimes fearful but always longing. When she'd sung this part with Erik, when Marguerite had finally given in to Faust, Christine had been left feeling like her legs might give out beneath her. Her final notes didn't leave her with such rapturous intensity now, but she knew that her voice replicated that feeling. The curtain closed and she was left in darkness, shaking and trying to catch her breath as the applause roared on out of sight.

She wished that Erik would come and see her during the intermission, even though she knew he couldn't. There would be so many people for him to greet, and anyway, he'd said that she ought to remain focused during the break and that a visit from him would only be an unhelpful distraction. Still, she wanted to know what he thought of the performance, what was going on up in the boxes, if people were giving him the recognition he deserved for such a lovely opening night. She wanted to press herself close to him, to nestle her face safely into the crook of his neck, and feel the security of his embrace again. This was all so much, almost too much, and she wanted that particular kind of peace that only seemed to settle over her when he was near. But she would have to wait, she told herself. Her dressing room was now filled with the fragrance of the roses he'd given her, and that would have to be enough of him for the moment.

Before she could let her mind linger on the thought for too long, she was back on stage being thrust into the fourth act and was immediately consumed by Marguerite's descent into madness. The piece that she shared with Mephistopheles had become one of her favorite moments, and she relished it even as the emotion of it left her trembling and vaguely uneasy. Then there was nothing left for her but the final scene. Her gown was exchanged for a plain linen shift and her wig was replaced by one with long tresses that cascaded freely over her shoulders, and for a brief moment she was paralyzed with nerves. But the moment she took her place on stage again, she was only Marguerite, and this scene was all that existed for her.

At first her voice was dreamy and distant, but as Marguerite's madness turned into a plea for salvation, Christine's voice rose until she felt like she was singing with the force of her entire soul. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she gave herself wholly over to the music, and by the time the trio reached its end, the tears streamed freely down her cheeks. Her last notes were ecstatic and left her breathless, and she was hardly aware of her final words to Faust before she was engulfed by the heavenly sound of the chorus. Then the curtain was lowering as the orchestra's refrain grew slow and soft, and for half a second everything was dark and still, and Christine half wondered if her soul might have actually left her body.

At first she did not realize that the thunderous roar that suddenly overwhelmed her senses was applause. But then she was being ushered to her place for the curtain call and reality returned to her, and she could not stop trembling as she stepped back out into the light.

The applause drowned out even the pounding of her heart when she stepped to the front of the stage to take her bow. Only then did she really look out into the audience, her eyes adjusting to the dim light just enough for her to see the rows upon rows of people stretching far back into the darkness. People stood and cheered and shouted for her, and she stumbled back, covering her mouth to suppress a sob as fresh tears sprang forth. Then her cast members were by her side, and she was thankful for their arms around her—she was certain she would have collapsed without them. Her gaze drifted up to the boxes, up to where she knew Erik was, and she beamed. She had him to thank for all of this. And soon enough he would be with her, the one person who would truly, wholly, share her joy.

She did not remember making her way from the stage to her dressing room except for the impression that a great many people had stopped her to congratulate her. Their kind words blurred together and her cheeks were stiff from smiling, and she didn't know how it was possible to feel so energized and so absolutely drained at once. Her dressing room felt silent in comparison, even with her dresser's chatter as the woman helped her back into her own clothes. For once Christine was grateful for the assistance; her hands trembled too badly for her to have done up the tiny hooks of her bodice herself.

When she was finally alone, she gingerly lowered herself into the chair at her dressing table and exhaled for what felt like the first time all night. Nothing of the last few hours felt even remotely real, but it all had been. The warmth of the lights, the thrill of the orchestra playing only feet from her, the roar of the applause, it had all been real. It was almost too much to think about. The reality of the night had only just started to set in when there was a quick knock on the door, and over the dull murmur of other voices passing outside the dressing room, she could make out Erik's voice.

"Christine?"

"Come in," she called, suddenly as breathless as if she had just come off stage.

She stood as Erik entered, her heart hammering, and for a breathless moment he held her gaze with a small smile. Soon, though, the smile grew into a bright grin, and she was rushing to him and throwing herself into his arms. The sound that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She buried her face in his jacket, and he cradled her as her shoulders shook, stroking her hair and murmuring gently.

"Oh, Christine. My beautiful, perfect Christine. You were flawless tonight."

She smiled, letting out a shuddering sigh, her face still pressed into his chest. "I cannot believe it."

"How did it feel to perform?"

"It felt…" she met his eyes, letting his warm, intense gaze steady her. "It felt like flying. It felt like I was not myself, but also like I was a truer version of myself than ever before. It was terrifying and exhilarating and I loved it."

"Good." Erik pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You have a great many nights like this ahead of you, I imagine. The audience loved you."

"And you? Did I do you justice tonight?"

He hummed softly, drawing her closer again until her forehead rested in the crook of his neck. "Your performance was a gift to me, Christine. I have never heard anything like it, and knowing that you were thinking of me… it was the greatest privilege of my life."

Her chest constricted at the soft sincerity of his voice, and unable to find the right words to reply, she leaned up to kiss him. He met her lips eagerly, one hand coming up to cradle her face, and she sighed and melted into him. Her head felt light and her legs felt weak and she was so exhausted and so invigorated, and this whole night was just so much. She could hardly make sense of it all. But this made sense; the thrumming of his heart under her palm and the warm pressure of his lips were all she wanted right now.

"How are you?" she asked softly when they parted. "I hope that tonight was not too trying."

"I'm fine," Erik told her, tracing a thumb over her cheek. "Seeing you perform tonight more than made up for the discomfort of necessary socializing. Generally I found the people I spoke with to be complimentary, even if somewhat reluctantly."

"You deserve more than reluctant compliments."

"I consider it a victory given how… adversarial some of my professional relationships have become."

"Oh, Erik, it wasn't as bad as all that, was it?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I knew things were strained, but _adversarial_…"

"I didn't want to worry you," he soothed. "Besides, it doesn't matter so much now. Opening night seems to have been a success. As long as the papers report as much tomorrow, I will be on much more stable ground."

She gave him a doubtful look, reassured but not ready to let go of her concern for him, and he smiled and went on hastily.

"Anyway, let's not think about any of that right now. You have just made quite the triumphant debut, and we ought to celebrate that. I have heard from several people that they would be delighted to receive you at various reveries tonight."

Christine's face had softened into a small smile. "If you do not object to skipping the public celebrations, I believe I would rather go home."

"There's nothing I would like better."

Pausing to press one more gentle kiss to his lips, she turned to gather her things, and in a moment they were emerging back out into the world. The activity had slowed since Christine had returned to her dressing room as people were eager to get to whatever celebrations the night had in store, but there were still those who lingered, their excited chatter filling the halls. Nearly everyone they passed turned to congratulate them—first other members of the company, and then members of the audience in all their finery. They all had praise for the performance and gushed that they could not remember the opera house ever looking so wonderful, even on its original opening night ten years ago. Even so, it was still a relief to emerge into the cold night, having finally made their way through all the people. Their carriage was waiting for them, and when Erik had helped her in and climbed in after her, Christine moved to sit beside him, contentedly nestling into his side.

The rain had turned into sleet, and the soft tap of it hitting the carriage was a welcome reprieve from the commotion at the opera house. Neither of them spoke as they drove along, but drowsiness was not settling over Christine just yet. She was too determined to memorize every detail of this night, replaying her time on stage in her mind even as she thrilled at the feeling of Erik's thumb stroking up and down her arm. By the time they reached the house, she felt fully awake, reinvigorated by the cold and the quiet moments that had allowed her to catch her breath. Erik kept his arm around her as they rushed inside, and when he pulled away to allow Christine to remove her cloak, she felt bereft of the touch.

"Perhaps some champagne is in order if you are not too tired," he said, and she smiled.

"I am not tired at all, and I think that is a wonderful idea."

Soon they were comfortably installed in the study, chosen so they could close the door and Erik could remove his mask without fear of being disturbed. They sat together on the piano bench, champagne glasses mostly forgotten their feet as they spoke softly, their words broken up with gentle kisses. Christine wasn't certain just how long they stayed there, but she had no desire to move, no desire to be without him. There was so much joy and relief and excitement between them, things that each of them just had to share with the other. When Erik did finally suggest that perhaps they ought to retire, that she must be ready to rest, she agreed with some disappointment. The idea of being parted from him just now seemed almost physically painful; she needed him by her side to remind her that all of this was real, to share in the nearly overwhelming emotion that only he could truly understand. She needed him by her side because she loved him.

He walked with her upstairs to her room, stopping outside her door and leaning close to let his lips brush hers.

"It baffles me," he murmured, "how I could be fortunate enough to have the love of such an incredible woman."

"I am every bit as fortunate," she said, taking both his hands and bringing them up to her lips, pressing reverent kisses to his knuckles.

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight."

But when he began to pull away, her grip on his hands tightened, and he paused. Her heart hammered as he looked at her questioningly, and it was a second before she could summon the boldness to say what she was thinking.

"You could stay. If you want to."

"Stay." He repeated the word slowly as if it was in a barely remembered language and he was searching for its meaning. "Do you wish for me to stay?"

"Yes." Her voice was growing breathy and her cheeks were heating under his direct gaze.

Erik gave a thoughtful nod. "You wish for me to share your bed? As we did in Newport?"

"No. Well, yes, but—" she cut off and looked away, scolding herself for the burst of self-consciousness. They had always been frank with each other; this should be no different. She met his eyes again, speaking softly but evenly. "I wish for you to share my bed as my husband."

For a moment he didn't speak; his mouth opened and closed without forming words, and though his face was uncovered, Christine could not read his expression. Her chest tightened at the thought that he was searching for a way to politely refuse her, but her anxiety did not have time to fully take hold.

"Yes."

She looked at him carefully. "Yes?"

"Yes," he said again, his words coming out in a quiet rush. "Yes, if that is what you wish, and if you are certain, then I would be happy to stay."

Smiling, she leaned up to press a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips. Then, with both of his hands still twined with hers, she stepped back toward her room, pulling him with her.

"I'm certain."


	16. Chapter 16

**Well, here we are. I can't believe we've reached the end. I really can't thank you enough for all your support for this story. It's been such a pleasure writing this and getting to hear from you all. **

**In case anyone's interested, I've made the full story available for download as a PDF. The download link is in my profile. I'll also be posting a bit of a bonus on Tumblr (I'm teaandpinkfrosting there) with links to some of the fascinating archives I used for historical research, as well as links to performances of much of the music I've mentioned in this story.**

**Thank you so, so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter!**

* * *

Grand Central Station was busy, but as Erik moved through the crowds, for once he was entirely unmindful of the stares he drew. The train from St. Louis had just arrived, and any moment now he would catch sight of the face he had been longing to see for weeks. It seemed odd, now, that less than a year ago he had hoped for the very situation that now kept him so restless and uneasy. It had made perfect sense, of course, for Christine to join the Met's spring tour—the papers couldn't get enough of her and audiences far and wide were clamoring to hear the angelic voice that had garnered so many glowing reviews. He'd known it was right for her to go and had relished the excitement that radiated from her as she prepared. But that hadn't stopped him from feeling utterly lost without her.

They had hardly been apart since that first night they had spent together, the night the opera house had opened—it now seemed like half a lifetime ago. They'd remained in bed late into the next day, talking and making love and dozing in each other's arms. When they did emerge to order a late breakfast and see what the papers had to say about opening night, there had been half a dozen notes waiting for both of them. It had only taken a glance to realize they were notes of congratulations. There had been several papers with reviews, and Erik had read each of them aloud with Christine by his side, gripping his arm with nervousness and excitement. He'd been able to feel her smile as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

Reports of opening night had unanimously stated that the opera house had never looked finer, that the improvements made during the renovations were a great accomplishment, that a grand time had been had by all. They recounted the great success of a beautiful young soprano who had somehow been heretofore undiscovered but who ought to be one of the most sought-after artists in the world. Every aspect of the opera house and the evening's performance was praised, and one journalist even suggested that the night heralded a new era of innovation and prosperity for the company. Christine had given a relieved, disbelieving laugh and had wrapped her arms around him, and he'd stood there for a long time, just holding her close and letting the news settle in. A success. After all that, it had all been a success.

Of course the board had been quick to insist that Christine's performances throughout the season be increased, and though they congratulated each other for promoting this new talent far more than they congratulated Erik, a few of them were happy to shake his hand. After that there always seemed to be a rehearsal or performance to occupy Christine's time. That winter alone, she'd made appearances in _Lucia di Lammermoor_ and _Roméo et Juliette_ and just about every Sunday night concert they could get her into. She performed at the grandest private parties in the city and was invited as a guest to a great many more. But somehow she'd still managed to spend many afternoons sitting with Erik while he worked or working through a lesson with him. And in the evenings they would walk or sit nestled together on the sofa in the parlor with the fire blazing before them. He would fall asleep with her in his arms and wake up with her by his side. And while he still wondered how she could possibly love him like she did, there was no doubt that she _did_ love him, and that certainty was a far greater blessing than he had ever imagined having.

The tour had stolen her away on a gray, chilly day at the end of February, and now the warm gentleness of April greeted her return as though she were Persephone, arrived to bring spring to the world. So today Erik did not mind the sea of people pushing past him at Grand Central. He didn't mind the curious stares or the murmured remarks that were lost in the noise of the station. All he could think about was being reunited with the only person he'd ever actually wanted to be with.

He caught sight of her before she saw him, her face angelic and bright as her eyes roamed over the crowd around her. In a moment, though, she did see him, and his breath caught at the way her entire countenance lit up. The people were dense around her and she had to weave her way through them carefully, but Erik was already heading toward her with long, quick strides. And then she was there with him and his arms were around her, folding her neatly into his chest, and he was whole again.

"It's good to see you," she murmured into his jacket.

If not for the bonnet she wore, he would have bent to press a kiss to the top of her head. What he wanted even more was to kiss her properly, soundly, in a manner not suitable for such a public setting.

"It's good to see you too," he said softly, though the sentiment did not begin to describe what he felt.

"I enjoyed your letters greatly, but I must say that they are no match for _you_." She pulled away slightly and leaned up to press her lips to his. The kiss was far too brief, but it still sent a wave of relief through him.

"I missed you," he told her, his voice so low that it was almost swallowed up by the bustle around them.

"I missed you too."

For a moment she just stood and looked at him, a gentle, unconscious smile on her lips, and his heart sped as he took her in. She wore the same neat traveling suit she had when he'd last seen her, but her eyes shone brighter with the adventure of the past month, and something in the way she held herself had grown more self-assured. She was brilliant and lovely and, somehow, she was happy to be reunited with him.

"Can we go home now?" she asked quietly, and he could feel the smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course."

They quickly found a porter to retrieve her luggage, and then they were making their way through the crowded station out onto the equally crowded streets, where their carriage waited amidst a line of others. Erik helped her in, relishing the familiar feeling of her gloved hand in his and, after seeing that her belongings had all been safely secured to the carriage, climbed in after her. She smiled when he took the seat beside her and immediately reached over to take his hand.

"Did you have a good time, my dear?" he asked her, bringing her gloved hand to his lips to punctuate his question with a kiss.

"Oh, I did, Erik. All those new places—it was terribly exciting. There was so much I wanted to tell you about that I didn't have time to include in my letters."

"The clippings from the papers you sent were all very complimentary. 'Peerless' one of the reviews from Boston called you."

He had saved every one of the clippings she had sent him, tucking them safely away in his desk drawer along with each of her letters. She'd been compared to the great Adelina Patti. Her voice had been called indescribably beautiful. On nights when the rest of the company had lagged, she alone had redeemed the performance. It was every bit the kind of praise she deserved.

Christine smiled and looked down. "Everyone was very kind. I'm relieved to have been so well received. Hopefully it's an indication that I am acceptable outside of New York's artistic sphere."

Modest as ever, his Christine. Of course she was acceptable—she was far more than acceptable. It would only take a few years, no more than one or two international tours, for her to become a global phenomenon. No cultural variation in taste would be significant enough for anyone to find her lacking in talent.

"Next summer we ought to arrange a European tour for you," he said. "I have already started receiving offers, you know."

"Europe?" Her face lit up at the prospect, but her expression quickly turned hesitant. "Do you think it would be possible for, well, for you to travel with me? I've missed you so terribly these last weeks that I hardly know how I could stand to be an entire ocean away from you for a whole summer."

The request was not entirely unexpected—he had, in fact, been hoping for it—but her words still sent warmth flooding through him.

"I'll go with you wherever you want me to."

With not even two weeks remaining in the season, there was much still to do and little time to bask in Christine's return. She had several regular performances left before the gala that would end the season, and while the organization of that evening was not quite the monumental undertaking that opening night had been, it was more than enough to occupy most of Erik's waking hours. Still, he found plenty of time to spend with Christine, even if she was only sitting quietly with him while he worked. Her absence while on tour had been a gaping hole in his days, something he was aware of at all times. If he had taken great comfort in her presence before the tour, he felt that comfort doubly now. Even if their reunion was not a leisurely one, there was still a great deal of pleasure to be taken from it.

His contract arrived only a couple of days after Christine's return. Its coming had slipped his mind—there had been so much else to occupy him these last weeks with Christine being away, the gala quickly approaching, and plans for the following season already well under way. With the success of this season, he had been reasonably certain that his position as musical director was secure. He hadn't exactly been asked to begin planning the next season; it was more that plans had just naturally started taking shape. The board members were not entirely supportive of him, but it seemed enough of his plans had proven successful to have earned him a bit of begrudging respect. Still, when the neat stack of papers arrived at the house and a quick perusal of them confirmed that he was not being dismissed, it felt as though he was taking a breath for the first time in a year.

"Erik, what is it?" Christine was crossing the hall toward him with a look of concern that made him realize the intensity he must be radiating.

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. "My contract renewal."

It was a second before his words sank in and Christine broke into a grin. Closing the remaining distance between them with a few quick strides, she leaned up to kiss him. When she pulled back, she gently took his masked face in her hands.

"They would have been quite determined fools not to have asked you to return," she told him. "But I can imagine what a relief it is for you to finally have the papers in your hands. What do they offer you?"

Erik flipped through the papers. "Two more seasons with an option for further renewal, and an increase in salary. I am still obliged to seek their approval, but they have already been more willing to consider my suggestions. I suspect that they will continue to come around, even if it is gradually."

"You deserve much more than that," she said softly. "But I am happy for you. This has certainly been a hard-fought victory. And I also know that you will only continue to impress the world."

Setting the papers aside, Erik wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close. "Thank you," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "You know I could not have done this without you."

"That's not true at all," Christine laughed. "You most certainly could have."

"No," he insisted. "You make me better. More… inspired. More determined. Softer. Happier. You tolerate me and challenge me and support me. And I'm certain that your hard work and success this season have played a significant part for me."

"Well, we entered this marriage to help each other, and that's exactly what we've done."

Erik gave her a teasing smile. "Do you wish to leave now that our marriage has served its purpose?"

She pretended to consider for a moment, although she was unable to turn her expression serious. "I believe I will stay. I have found this arrangement much more pleasurable than I anticipated."

Chuckling, he leaned his head down to kiss her lips. "As have I."

* * *

The morning of April 27, 1894 dawned cool and quiet. Erik drifted into consciousness slowly and easily—the luxury of a comfortable sleep was one he had only recently been able to enjoy. He still tended to wake quite early, with only the gray light of dawn creeping into the room, but he no longer woke with any urgency. In the stillness of the morning, he could hear Christine's slow, steady breaths. He could not remember any particular morning when her presence beside him had started to feel familiar, expected. It had happened gradually, he supposed. But even now that it was expected, the sleeping form beside him always made his breath come a little more easily.

She was sleeping on her side with her back to him, and he shifted to nestle into her, her soft body fitting comfortably into the too-boney curve of his own. Her nightgown had slipped down her shoulder, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck, relishing the warmth of her bare skin. Sighing, she leaned into him, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder.

Two nights ago had been her final performance of _Faust_. The house had been packed, with a great many people standing, all eager to take advantage of their last chance this season to hear the universally acclaimed soprano who had seemed to come out of nowhere only a few months ago. Christine had been sublime, as she always was, and the roar of applause she'd received had been deafening. Of course it wasn't quite her final performance—at the gala tonight, she would sing the third act of _Roméo et Juliette_ before concluding the evening with the mad scene from _Hamlet_. Her triumph that night would be a fitting end to the season. It would be the best night the opera house had seen since her debut. But right now, she deserved to rest.

The months between seasons would hardly give her a chance to recover. Their plans to expand her repertoire, in addition to preparations for _Elaine_, a new production that Erik had pushed for, gave them plenty to cover in their lessons. And then there were the private parties in the country at which she'd been asked to perform. Audiences were so eager to hear her again that the Met had arranged a series of concerts, all featuring her quite heavily, set to begin an entire month before the opening of the new season. For a while she would have a performance nearly every day. People simply could not get enough of her. Not that he could blame them.

Christine stirred, then, as if she'd been able to hear his thoughts of the work ahead of them. Her legs stretched out under the covers and her back arched lazily as she rolled over to face him. At first she didn't open her eyes, but her small, sleepy smile as she pressed closer to him and tangled their legs told Erik that she was awake. He said nothing, preferring to simply let her nestle into him, his arms snaking around her to hold her close.

"Morning," she murmured into his chest after a moment.

"It's early," he told her softly. "You can sleep longer if you want."

She replied with a contented hum. "I'm pretty happy like this."

"And I'm not complaining, but you need your rest. Tonight's a big night."

"It's a big night for you, too. End of your first season." Her voice was gradually becoming clearer as sleep drifted further away, but she made no move to disentangle herself from him.

"I don't have to perform tonight."

"No, but you'll have to speak to everyone."

Erik felt her pull away a little, and he looked down to see her smiling amusedly up at him. "What?"

"Nothing," she said lightly. "I was just thinking that since I'll be the last to perform tonight, I could easily end the evening by asking our brilliant musical director to join me on stage and take a bow."

He studied her for a moment, trying to determine just how much she was teasing him, and she continued.

"Of course I happen to know that he is a very private man who would not like that at all. But it would be a level of recognition that he fully deserves, don't you think?"

Relaxing a little at the knowledge that she was not actually planning to bring attention to him, he gave her a wry smile.

"Perhaps it would be best for you to accept that recognition for both of us."

"If you insist." She leaned up to punctuate her words with a kiss. "But someday I will see that you get your due. I'm quite determined."

"Then perhaps someday I'll let you. But until then, your regard is more than enough for me."

Even though the gala did not begin until late that evening, there was little time to linger that morning before Erik knew he ought to get to the opera house. There was much to oversee, and while this season had certainly been a lesson in relinquishing control, tonight was too important to take any chances. The day flew by as he continuously ran from one end of the opera house to the other, working with the stage manager, inspecting the lobby and auditorium to make sure everything was clean and polished, discussing the possibility of encores with the conductor. The face-to-face interaction always left him exhausted and edgy, but at least the staff below him had seemed to accept him more quickly than those above him.

By the time the performers were arriving and he returned to his office to change into his evening attire, he was thoroughly worn but satisfied that the evening would go smoothly. For a too-brief moment, he lingered in the quiet solitude of his office, feeling as though he was finally able to catch his breath. But the moment could not last long. There would surely be issues that required his attention as the performers made their final preparations, and he had no intention of depriving himself of his usual visit to Christine's dressing room, especially after not having seen her all day. Just the sight of her was always enough to refresh his spirits.

The audience was arriving by the time he finally reached her dressing room. He knocked once and she called for him to come in, the sound of her voice washing over him like a warm bath, soothing frayed nerves that he hadn't even been aware of. Christine sat at her dressing table in her Juliette costume, her face breaking into a warm, easy smile when he stepped inside.

"I was beginning to think you were too wrapped up in something to come and see me."

"Seeing you is my most important duty," he said, crossing the room to her and pressing a light kiss to her forehead. "I would never neglect it."

"You sound tired."

Her forehead was creased with concern, and he smoothed away the lines with his thumb. "It has been a long day. But there will be plenty of time to rest soon. What would you think of finding a little place to stay by the sea?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea." She stood and, taking his face gently in her hands, leaned up to press her lips to his. "You did all of this, you know. Tonight will be wonderful, but you've done so much more. This whole, brilliant season is all you."

"There's still time for tonight to go terribly wrong and undo the success of the whole season," he said with a wry smile, and she gave him a stern look.

"Tonight will be a fitting end to a successful season," she told him. "_Your _successful season. And I think you ought to let yourself revel in it a bit."

His smile softened. "If you think it's right, than perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing. As long as you don't forget to revel in your own success."

She grinned. "Deal."

Their visit was cut short by a call out in the hall for the orchestra to be seated—Erik's cue to make his way to his own seat. Leaving Christine's dressing room always gave him the feeling of reemerging into the world from someplace where only the two of them ever existed. The commotion outside did not seem so overwhelming now, though. It felt lively. The opera house was alive and vibrant, and he'd had no small part in creating this. Perhaps Christine was right—perhaps he should allow himself to release the last of the tension that had kept him anticipating disaster for months now. Perhaps it would be all right to enjoy the night a little.

The auditorium was full and buzzing, and Erik took a moment to look across the crowd as he took his seat. From his box, people stretched out all around him; there was a vast, undulating sea below him, and above him the stalls stretched farther up than he could see. The ring of boxes that stretched out to either side were just as full and lively with people in all their dazzling finery, talking and laughing and letting themselves be seen. And this was very much the place to be seen at, Erik realized with a small surge of pride. It was glittering and luscious and drew the people everyone wanted to be associated with. All of these people were enjoying his vision, found it worthwhile. He still could not hope for a day when he himself might be accepted widely and without reservation—truthfully he could not even imagine such a thing—but perhaps he would see the day when his work was fully embraced.

The crowd hushed as the house lights dimmed, with even the usual conversation in the boxes far more subdued than usual. People weren't just here for the socialization; they were here for the music. They were eager for it, eager to see how a season more enjoyable than any in recent memory would conclude. This simple, quiet moment was perhaps a greater endorsement of his work than anything else. And then the conductor strode through the pit and the applause broke out, and Erik settled back into his seat to watch the performance.

The evening began with the third act of _Roméo et Juliette_, which was received with great delight. Christine shone onstage as she always did, radiating sweetness and innocence, her voice ringing out clear and light. Erik wondered how the audience could possibly watch anyone else when Christine was onstage. When the act was over, the roar of the applause was resounding, and the cast was called back for more bows several times, Christine coming away with her arms full of roses. Next came the second act of _Carmen_, where the Toreador Song drew great applause and calls for an encore, which the young tenor was happy to indulge. Even when the house lights came up for intermission, people were held rapt in their seats as members of the company came out to sing. Informal as it was, their voices could still be heard clearly over the murmur of conversations, and the applause and shouts for encores remained every bit as enthusiastic.

"Everyone certainly seems to be enjoying themselves this evening." Erik hadn't noticed Armand step into the box until he spoke.

"It's a momentous evening, and everyone likes to indulge in something that feels special."

"And you?" Armand asked, taking the empty seat beside Erik.

"I think it's a fine evening," he said. "The performances have certainly been well received, and no one could complain about the quality."

"Does it all make a fitting tribute to your work this year?"

Erik gave a nod, a reserved smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, I believe it does."

"You may not believe this, but I was quite gratified to send you that contract. You certainly earned it."

"Thank you," Erik said quietly. "Your support has played no small part in all of this."

"Like I said, it's gratifying to see someone deserving succeed. And to see the company moving in a direction I believe in. After the season we've had, the others can't help but come around, even if they are a bit hesitant to do it. A few more seasons like this and I believe you'll be able to do whatever you please."

"I am glad to hear that." Truthfully, the words lifted a weight from his shoulders. He hadn't been aware of any lingering concern about the future, but Armand had never been one to make things out to be better than they were, and it was a relief to know that his work this year had paid off. Maybe one day he would have the respect he needed to fully realize his artistic vision, but this was a promising start.

"How does Mrs. Mason feel about all of this?"

Erik couldn't completely conceal a genuine smile at the mention of Christine. "She is grateful. I do not believe she understands the full extent of her own success yet, and she is far too modest to take advantage of it. She has much more appreciation for my achievement than her own."

Armand clapped a hand on Erik's shoulder. "That sounds about right. You're a lucky man to have found yourself such a lovely wife, Erik."

He nodded, his face heating under his mask. "I know. I sometimes think that finding Christine was the only real stroke of luck I've ever had in my life. It's the most important one I could ever have, at least."

"Perhaps the two of you will come and visit us this summer?"

"Perhaps," Erik agreed.

Armand stood and held out his hand; a little surprised, Erik shook it. "Congratulations. For everything."

Erik gave another nod, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Thank you."

Soon after Armand left, the lights dimmed again and the audience settled into the same eager hush as before. Erik relaxed into his seat, feeling a little lighter. Soon Christine would return to the stage, her solo performance making an appropriate finale to the season. And then the night would be over, but really, everything would only be the beginning for her. He supposed that tonight was the beginning for him as well. The thought held more promise and hope than he'd ever imagined he would feel.

The second half of the night began with the third act of _Werther_, followed by the third act of _Aida_, both of which earned such thunderous approval that the performers were called back to the stage for additional bows half a dozen times or more. Then it was time for Christine to make her final appearance, and the energy in the auditorium was palpable. The audience was ready for her, greedy for her, and when she stepped out onto the stage, there was such a burst of applause that she could not quite hide a look of surprise. It was a long moment before the audience quieted, but when they did it was absolutely silent, as if no one was even daring to breathe. The first notes of Ophelia's mad scene rang out from the orchestra, and then there was Christine's voice, sweet and clear and as perfect as it had ever been.

Christine was absolutely divine. The gown she wore was her own, the ivory silk giving off a beatific glow under the stage lights, the delicate pink flowers adorning at the waist and neckline bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks. Even after all the hours they had spent practicing this very piece, her performance now raised goosebumps on Erik's arms. She moved through the notes with ease, even as her voice rose to acrobatic heights. It was clear, when she finished the piece, that he was not alone in his admiration; again and again, she was called back to the stage for another bow, which she made with an endearing shyness as roses rained down on her. Finally she exchanged a few words with the conductor, and with an encore apparent, the audience settled down quickly, waiting to see how she would follow such a glorious performance.

Erik smiled to himself as he recognized the opening notes of the familiar song. It was a simple, quiet piece—humble in comparison to what she might have chosen. But as she began to sing, a soft reverence seemed to settle over the room, and he knew why she had chosen the piece. It was genuine; it was the love and gratitude that she felt. The emotions were so clear in her voice that anyone listening couldn't help but feel it too.

_Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam  
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home_

Erik wondered, not for the first time, how someone who shone so magnificently could possibly care for him. No matter how many times he thought of it, he could never make sense of it. But there was no doubt that she did care for him. Even now as she sang, holding thousands of people completely spellbound, she was looking up toward his box. Her smile was the warm, gentle expression that had become so familiar to him, and he smiled back, imagining that she might feel it even if she could not see it. He thought of their home—the home that she had created out of what had once simply been a brick structure to shield him from the world. He thought of the days that they would share together.

Tonight, she was the center of the world—his brilliant rising star. But tomorrow the rest of the world would seem far away. It would be just the two of them in their comfortable little home filled with music. And somehow, even then, she would love him. He couldn't think of anything more glorious.


End file.
